A/N: First, I am SO sorry for the delay! Secondly, I know not a lot happens in this chapter, but I wanted to post something. Thirdly, I want to apologize in advance if this chapter seems at all OC.

xxxx

Pastor Jim Murphy dipped a spoon into the spaghetti sauce bubbling on his stove and blew on it lightly before tasting it. He paused for a minute before wrinkling his forehead in thought.

"Garlic salt?" He murmured, squinting at the rows of spices in his pantry. "Basil?" He was about to make a decision when his phone rang. Grumbling under his breath, he abandoned his hunt for spices and picked up the phone, answering it curtly.

The voice on the other line was not one that he was expecting.

"Pastor Jim?" John Winchester asked tentatively. Jim was surprised at how concerned, how broken the other man sounded.

"John? What's going on? How are the boys?"

He could hear John swallow loudly, his breathing shaky.

"I screwed up, Jim," John said finally. "I was gone longer than I thought, and the boys got hungry. Dean, he, uh, he gave all the food to Sammy, and then he went to get more groceries. He, uh, he got clipped by a car and he was already sick- oh, shit, Jim, I screwed up."

"John, I need you to calm down, okay? Is Dean okay?"

"No. He's sick, Jim, and it's bad. They, uh, the d-doc says that it's touch and go at this point."

"He's in the hospital, then?" Jim asked, relief flooding him even as he felt a pang of panic. At least John had had the good sense to get Dean to a hospital.

"Yeah, and I've got CPS breathing down my neck. They-they're trying to take away my kids, Jim. They're trying to take away my boys."

Jim inhaled sharply. He knew that John Winchester wasn't the best father ever, that he sure as hell wasn't going to win and 'Dad of the Year' awards, but he loved his sons, relied on them and needed them. If they got taken away, it would crush him, and it would likely crush the boys too. The likelihood of Sam and Dean getting put together in a home and staying that way wasn't great.

"Okay, John, I want you to relax. There's a hunter in the area, not 50 miles away from you, so I'm going to have him come up and meet you. He can pose as your brother and give you some credibility until I can make it up there. Just hang in there, John, and take care of your boys, okay? Just focus on getting Dean better and on keeping Sam calm."

"Okay. Okay. Thank you, Jim, you don't know-"

"Don't worry about it, John. Those boys mean a lot to me and I'm happy to help."

"Well, thanks anyway."

"Of course. Good luck, John, I should be there in two days at the latest."

He hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, contemplating what he was about to do. He told himself that there was no question that he was doing the right thing, helping John keep his boys, but there was a small part of him that refused to be silenced, that said that maybe the boys would do better in a normal family.

Finally, he picked the phone up again and dialed.

xxxx

John sat next to Dean's side, head in his hands. Damn but he was tired. Dean had showed a bit of improvement over the last few hours, his fever dropping a few degrees, but he was still struggling for air, still had to endure the hellish respiratory therapy sessions, was still pale and thin and sick. Sam wasn't allowed in the ICU for another hour still, and John wasn't going to argue about it since they normally didn't let kids into the ICU period.

The hospital actually provided a play area for pediatric patients well enough to use it, and for the siblings of patients. There were volunteers watching the kids, but John had still left Dean's side every five minutes to go check on Sammy, and every time Sam was in the exact same spot. He sat despondently in a chair to the side of the play structure, legs dangling above the ground, lower lip trembling and tears running down his face.

John felt like the worst father ever.

He needed to be in two places at once, needed to comfort Sam and strengthen Dean. Not to mention he needed to get CPS off his ass.

When the room phone rang, it startled him, and apparently Dean, who jumped slightly and hitched in a surprised breath.

"Hey, it's okay," John said, running a hand across Dean's back as he picked up the phone.

"Hello? Mr. Winchester? This is the charge nurse. We have a man here who said he's come to see you? Bobby Singer?"

John felt a prickle of fear crawl up his spine. It could be the hunter Pastor Jim had mentioned, but Sammy and Dean were both so damn vulnerable right now…He fingered the knife he was carrying at his waistband and took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll be right down."

He turned back to Dean, who was blinking at him half-aware.

"I'm going to be right back, okay buddy?"

"'K," Dean said quietly, his eyelids already drooping back down.

John stood and went down to the main waiting area of the ICU wing, praying that he wasn't making a huge mistake, allowing the weight of his knife to ground him. He approached the nurse's desk and was about to talk to ask about his visitor when a gruff voice spoke up behind him.

"John? Is that you?"

John turned and looked at the man. He had a good couple years on John, a salt-and-pepper beard, a trucker hat, and a flannel jacket. He looked fairly normal. John was less than convinced.

"Bobby!" He said, fake cheeriness coloring his tone. "Damn, I am glad to see you." He moved close to Bobby and stuck his hand out to shake, watching closely as Bobby showed no reaction to the sigil John had drawn on his palm, or to the softly muttered 'Christo'.

"Um, my son is down this way," John said, leading Bobby away from Dean's room. He stepped into a small, empty room and shut the door behind him. Bobby nodded as if he was expecting that type of reaction.

"Okay, Winchester, let's get this over with," he said, rolling up his sleeve. John nodded and pulled a flask of holy water out of his jacket, wordlessly handing it to Bobby. Bobby grinned humorlessly.

"Cheers," he said, taking a long swig of it. Nothing happened, so John took the flask back and handed him an iron knife. Bobby raised an eyebrow but took the knife and cut a thin line on his forearm.

"Thanks," John said, accepting the knife back. "Can't be too careful."

"You know there are still any number of things I could be," Bobby said, rolling his sleeve back down.

"I know," John said. "And believe me, I'll be watching for it. But right now, I need someone to trust, and Jim sent you."

Bobby nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

"So you need help?" He said finally.

"Yeah," John answered, scrubbing a hand at the growth on his chin. "My son Dean is in pretty bad shape and I've got CPS up my ass." The admission was clearly a difficult one for him to make, and Bobby shifted his weight.

"You know, I've always thought you were bat-shit crazy for dragging your boys along with you," he said.

John looked up, brow furrowed.

"How the hell do you know about me?" He growled, low and deep in his throat.

"Hunters talk, Winchester. And a hunter who hauls two kids around with him, he makes an impression."

"Well, you listen to me, Singer. I am my sons' father, and I sure as hell don't need you judging me." John's fists were clenched at his side, his jaw tight.

"Okay, I don't want a fight, Winchester. I'm here to help you out because Jim asked me to." Bobby spoke with his arms up, complacent.

"I'm sorry," John said, rubbing his face again. "I'm just so damn tired-"

"Why don't we go to Dean, huh? And then we can get your younger boy too."

John nodded, suddenly feeling the exhaustion that had been held at bay closing in on him.

Dean's room was quiet aside from the quiet hiss of oxygen and the hushed beeping of a heart monitor. Dean looked pathetically small, sitting partially upright in a mound of pillows. An oxygen cannula ran under his nose, IVs in his wrist, his knee elevated and swollen.

"Dad?" He mumbled as John walked into the room. He blinked sleepily, grinning lopsidedly.

"Hey buddy, how you doing?" He asked, sitting down at Dean's side and putting a hand on Dean's forehead. Dean squirmed.

"'M good. Where's Sammy?"

"He'll be here in a few minutes, kid. I've brought someone to meet you."

Dean frowned in confusion, then turned his head sluggishly toward Bobby.

"Hi Dean. I'm Bobby Singer. I'm a friend of Jim's."

"Bobby?" Dean repeated, looking at the gruff man next to him. He looked at John. "You test him?"

John nodded.

Dean held a thin hand full of wires out to the older man. Bobby grasped it and shook it gently. Dean seemed satisfied, settling back against the pillows.

"Why are you here?" He whispered.

"I'm here to help out your daddy," Bobby answered. He swore lightly to himself; this boy was already stealing his heart.

"Help?" Dean gasped, suddenly looking panicked. "Sammy? Where's Sammy? 'S he okay? 'S it CPS?"

"Dean, Dean calm down. Your brother is fine, CPS isn't going to do anything, and you just need to get better. Bobby's here so that I can take Sammy home, let him take a shower and get some rest, okay?"

Dean peered at Bobby, eyes narrowing.

"Fine," he said finally before bursting out coughing. John helped him sit up, pounding him on the back until he regained his breath. He hated that he knew exactly how to pound Dean's back to help his son cough, hated that he had to know that. Damn, this situation sucked.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean murmured, his words slightly slurred. Bobby grinned and John chuckled lightly.

"I'll let the language slide this time, buddy, but as soon as you feel better…" He let his voice trail off and thumbed Dean's warm cheek.

"Dad?" Dean muttered. "Y' should go get Sam. I'll be okay."

John looked uncertainly at Bobby, then back down at Dean. Dean motioned him closer, and John leaned in.

"You tried holy water an' silver," Dean whispered harshly. John nodded. "I mem'rized an exorcism, an' I nicked a scalpel this mornin'. 'M fine, Dad."

John blinked for a minute, staring at his son in surprise, then laughed. Even weak and exhausted, Dean never failed to surprise him.

"Okay Dean, I'll be right back." John stood up and motioned to Bobby. "You touch my boy, you harm a single hair on his head, and I will hunt you down until the day I die, do you understand me?"

Bobby nodded seriously, then grinned.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Winchester. I'll take care of him."

"Thank you," John said, then walked out of the room. Bobby turned around and saw Dean peering at him, blinking sleepily. There was a glint of metal, and Bobby could see the scalpel the little boy was clutching in one shaking hand.

"Dean, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. I'm here to watch out for you. You can sleep."

Dean didn't relinquish his hold on the scalpel and shook his head stubbornly.

"Why?" He asked, his voice raspy.

"Jim asked me too," Bobby answered. Dean shook his head.

"Liar. Why?"

Bobby looked into the boy's green eyes, muddied with pain and fatigue, but bright, intelligent, took in the pale face and the freckles, the hair plastered to the forehead with sweat…and gave in.

"I had to kill my wife," Bobby said finally. "She was possessed. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but I had to kill her."

"Hunter," Dean said, exhaustion coloring his voice.

"Yep," Bobby confirmed. "Took me down the same road your daddy's on now."

"Not good enough," Dean murmured. He was growing sleepy. "Why us?"

"My wife was pregnant," Bobby said finally, emotions long hidden threatening to surface. "I was going to have a son."

Dean blinked sleepily and put a small hand over Bobby's.

"'M sorry," he said, then drifted off to sleep.

"Me too, kid," Bobby whispered, blinking tears back. Damn John Winchester and his boys.