A/N

Hey everybody. I got all my work done early today. So I rewarded myself (more like you guys!) with some caffeine and another chapter. It's almost 5,000 words. It should hold you guys over in case I can't get anymore written for a while. Like I said…road trip.

Thanks Cold Kagome and Frostygossamer for your guys' instant feedback =) You're awesome.

And all my readers deserve a round of applause. You stick with all my sarcastic jerk-like behavior *claps in a non-patronizing way*

Disclaimer: Nooooooo I don't own them! Geesh how many times do I gotta say it? Will I get in trouble if I DON'T?

CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This one I'm putting in here voluntarily. I'm no medical expert. Everything I know comes from survival courses, first aid books, and movies/shows. And everyone around me is probably praying that they never have to have me operate on them…

Dean sat down near Samantha's sleeping form and watched apprehensively while Bobby tromped to the tiny bathroom to wash his hands. Bobby's here, Bobby's gonna help…Dean kept repeating to himself, one hand playing with a stray curl that bounced up and down every time Samantha took a breath. But now that help was here, Dean wasn't so sure he wanted to hang around and watch. It's called blood, Dean, you're gonna be seein' a lot of it. Get used to it. His dad's voice rang through his head. He didn't think that his dad had ever said those exact words, but it sounded like something he would say, and that was enough to convince Dean that sticking around would help beef up his "man card." Yeah—he'd stick around…for Sam's sake.

Bobby deftly began grabbing items out of his first aid duffel, setting aside a carton of rock salt (whatever that was for) and a flask that Dean had never seen Bobby drink from before. A plastic garbage bag, rolls of gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape were tossed swiftly over Bobby's shoulder to land onto the bed next to Sam. Meanwhile, Cas stood a hairbreadth away from Bobby, watching the older man curiously. A few of the tossed items narrowly missed Castiel, and Dean had a hard time thinking that Bobby hadn't done that intentionally.

A trip to the bed was made, where Bobby assessed Sam's current condition. Dean tried to make out what Bobby was saying, but the man was mumbling under his breath. He was wearing his "making mental checklists" face, and Dean knew better than to interrupt him to ask what he was talking about. Castiel, however, had no such knowledge. On Bobby's trip back to the table for more supplies, Castiel found out the hard way.

"What are you doing?" Castiel prompted, his mouth centimeters away from Bobby's ear. The package of needles Bobby was holding fell to the floor as Bobby jumped in surprise.

"Dammit, boy!" Bobby griped as he bent down to pick them up. Castiel looked around, perhaps wondering if Bobby had been cursing at someone else. When Bobby stood up again, it appeared to be that he realized that his anger was lost on Castiel. Shaking his head, Bobby handed Castiel a glass bottle.

"Make yurself useful and get him to drink some of this."

Castiel took the bottle gently, staring at it with a slight smirk on his face.

"Well?" Bobby huffed. "Did I give ya an order, or did I give ya an order?"

Castiel nodded, stepping up to the bed next to Sam. He waved the bottle in Sam's pained face.

"Here."

Dean chewed on his bottom lip. Did he really think that was going to work…?

"Drink, Samuel." Castiel tried again, nearly hitting Sam's lax jaw with the neck of the bottle.

The unconscious man didn't even stir. Dean looked to Bobby, who was staring, slack-jawed, at Castiel's unique bed-side manners.

"Please tell me there aren't more where he came from." Bobby grouched as he passed Dean.

"Would you not rather he remain unconscious?" Castiel asked after another short period of failure.

"Sure. That'd be great. But none of my patients have ever been that easy, and I'd rather the kid drink himself to sleep so we can get this done right."

Castiel nodded, Bobby's logic having apparently made sense to him. It did not make sense to Dean. He could remember the nights—or, more appropriately, early mornings—when John came home from Maggie's bar, swaying obnoxiously and mumbling incoherently until Dean managed to help him stumble up the stairs, where his father would fall into bed, jacket and boots still on, dead asleep. Then he'd sleep—and sleep and sleep—until mid-afternoon the next day, when Dean had to either take Samantha outside or keep her quiet and busy while John gorged himself on coffee and aspirin. And it had all stemmed from bottles exactly like the one Castiel was holding in his hand.

What befuddled Dean was, why would Bobby want to put poor Sam through that? Couldn't Bobby see that Sam was already in enough pain?

But Dean was a good little soldier. He always followed orders. He stepped in to help when other soldiers couldn't carry out an order on their own. So like the good soldier that he was, he slid quietly away from Samantha's side, and crawled across the other bed to sit on his knees next to where Sam lay. "Let me try, Cas."

Bobby's head snapped up, eyes wide, jaw working furiously. "Ya sure ya wanna do that kid?"

Dean shrugged. A million thoughts swarmed in his mind, thoughts he wanted to voice to Bobby, but couldn't. No. I don't' want to. But Cas can't, don't you see? Cas can't do anything, he's just a kid in a man's body—he's scared just like I am, Bobby, just like you are. I know there's something you're not telling me. I need you to know that you can tell me. I gotta prove this to you. You can trust me, I can handle anything you can!

But he settled for a lame answer instead. "I never do anything I don't want to do." But he could tell that Bobby knew he was lying. Heck, Bobby had an internal lie detector, he knew when anyone was lying. And, not wanting to call Dean's bluff, Bobby conceded.

"All right. You can help. Do everything I say, and if I tell ya to stop, or look away, ya do it, ya hear?"

Dean nodded firmly, and he was rewarded with a ghost of a smile from Bobby. He took the bottle from Castiel's loose grasp. But as he held the bottle of whiskey—Jack Daniels Black Label Old No.7, the good stuff—he noted, he wondered if volunteering his help had been a mistake.

For starters—to put it simply, Sam was huge. Maneuvering any part of him while he was awake was hard enough. While sleeping would be a nightmare.

He looked like a fighter. What if, in his groggy state of mind, he saw Dean as a threat and tried to take him out? Dean was not a lightweight—not for his age, anyway—but one solid thwack from Sam's gi-normous hand would most likely put Dean down for the count.

But amidst his concerns, there was something calming about the task before him. He was finally helping—finally making himself useful—sure, Samantha needed him most of the time, but that was his job. That was the only thing he was good for, in most people's opinion. But now…now Bobby was relying on him to help Sam, because Castiel, the only other adult in the room, couldn't. And Dean wasn't about to let Bobby—or Sam—down.

So the only challenge he faced was waking Sam up. After he roused the man, it should be easy. It was a bottle, after all—how hard could that be? He had bottle-fed Samantha millions of times. Millions of times…the memories came rushing back to him.

Eight-month old Samantha was crying—nearly screaming—she had been for the past two minutes and it didn't look like she'd be quieting down any time soon. Seated in the boxcar of a nameless train, Dean watched as John stirred restlessly. He had finally fallen asleep just under ten minutes ago, after the train had finally started moving fast enough that John's cries of pain wouldn't risk being heard. Dean didn't understand why the water had hurt his father so much. It was just water, not peroxide like John usually used, so why did it hiss, and steam, and make John yell? It had broken Dean's heart to watch his father in so much pain—especially since Dean had no idea who had hurt him.

Dean knew that if Samantha kept crying like this, John would wake up—wake up and feel more pain—and Dean didn't think he could bear seeing his father like that ever again.

She's probably hungry. Dean couldn't find any other explanation for Samantha's crying. Dean dug into his backpack and retrieved Samantha's bottle. There was some formula that a nice sympathetic lady at the last diner had given John when he couldn't get Samantha to quiet while they were eating dinner.

Dean grabbed the canteen of water that John had used to clean his wounds; he poured a small amount into the Samantha's bottle. He added a scoop of the formula and closed the lid, shaking the bottle well. He was hesitant to give the water to Samantha—it had caused John so much pain—but there was no reaction to the formula, and Samantha wasn't bleeding, so Dean could only hope he was doing the right thing.

Tipping the bottle up to Samantha's lips, he coaxed the tip into her mouth. The liquid flowed into her chubby baby cheeks, but Samantha refused to swallow. She spit the liquid out at Dean instead. He made a disgusted face—boy it smelled nasty, he could see why Samantha didn't' want it!—but he knew she needed to eat. He tried again, pushing the bottle deeper into her little mouth, pouring more liquid in. This time, he rubbed her throat a little, and Samantha swallowed with no hesitation. She even giggled a little bit, and Dean took that as a good sign. He continued to feed her until the bottle was dry. The boxcar was bouncy, and a little rough, but it the motion calmed Samantha enough that she fell asleep, plunging the boxcar into quiet that was much needed as far as Dean could tell. It was their first time on a train—and if the circumstances had been better—Dean was sure it would have been at least a little bit fun. It was better than riding around in a bus while John waited for his car to be fixed up…

His car. Dean snapped back to the present, having made more than one revelation while he was daydreaming. The water—it was in the same kind of flask that Bobby now had on the bed—he was planning on hurting Sam with it! It would bubble and steam just like it had with John! Dean pushed frantic panic down; Bobby wouldn't purposely hurt Sam, would he? But it still gave him reason to be wary. And the car—didn't John use to drive a car just like Sam had? An Impala? Dean couldn't quite remember; it had been so long since they had ridden in anything but Maggie's truck. He put that question on the backburner as well, hoping to get a chance to ask Bobby about the car and the water at a later date.

For now, he focused on Sam. The element of surprise—that's what John called it—was what Dean was planning on using. He hadn't given Samantha any notice; Sam wouldn't get any either. What they didn't know, they couldn't fuss about. He would make Sam drink it just like he had gotten Samantha to nearly four years ago. He unscrewed the black bottle cap and put it in his pocket. Gently, he grabbed Sam's jaw, the unconscious man put up no struggle as Dean opened his mouth. Here goes, Dean cringed, pouring a measured dose of the whiskey into the unconscious man's throat.

"Dean! He'll choke—!" Bobby gasped in horror. Dean shook his head and put his hand on Sam's throat. He massaged the tense, chorded muscles, just like he had for Samantha. Sure enough, Sam swallowed on pure instinct. A small moan followed, and bleary eyes blinked open to stare at Dean, before widening in shock. Tentatively, Sam stuck his tongue out, tasting the remains of liquid on his chapped lips. He made a face, and Dean had a hard time controlling a giggle. It looked like quite the "bitch face." The type of face that said that the wearer wasn't sure whether they should laugh, cry, yell, or throw up. Maggie wore it all the time, and it was a face that Dean had learned to associate with women…bitchy women. Dean was guessing that since Sam was wearing said face, Sam wanted to throw up—and he really did not want to have to learn how to clean grown-man spit-up off of his clothes. Who knows how much would end up coming out of the sasquatch's stomach.

"It's whiskey…" Dean filled in the blanks for Sam.

Sam nodded weakly, teeth chattering as he spoke. "F-for the..unggggh…p-pain—thanks…D-dean."

"Sure." Dean smiled reassuringly. "But you have to drink more, I think."

Sam blanched further, if that was even possible.

"Hold everything!" Bobby called. Dean recognized the urgency in Bobby's voice and had the good sense to dive out of the way as Sam bolted upright in bed, immediately curling himself over the waste bucket that appeared in front of him. The shot of whiskey, and whatever else Sam might have had in his stomach (which didn't appear to be much) was ejected violently into the bucket. Sam retched until there was nothing left, alternately panting and dry heaving so hard that Dean was afraid he might crack a rib, or throw up his stomach, if that was possible. Dean hesitated to think that the tiny sounds emitting themselves from Sam's throat were actually whimpers. Bobby's hand rubbed gently between Sam's sweaty shoulder blades. It seemed to calm Sam a little, and Dean filed that information away for later referencing.

Finally the awful episode appeared to be over, but Sam remained slumped, one hand on his thigh, the other wrapped carefully around his stomach. Bobby put the trash can aside, moving a gentle hand from Sam's back to his shoulder, pushing him lightly back onto the bed.

"Come on, kid. We gotta get ya horizontal before ya hurt yourself more."

"So that's a negative on the whiskey, then…" Dean sighed.

"And I haven't been anywhere near a hospital to nab some of the local anesthetics." Bobby lamented, casting a sorrowful glance at Sam's pained face. He was flush with fever and exertion, a fine sheen of sweat coated his body even though he was shivering. Dean was sure that poor Sammy hadn't even gotten the chance to get dry from the rain.

"Down more whiskey, or rough it. Whatcha wanna do, kid?" Bobby asked gently.

Sam's eyes flitted around the room, making eye contact with no one and everyone at the same time. He looks like a cornered, wounded animal. Why is the world so unfair? Why didn't Maggie get hurt? Panic briefly settled in Dean's stomach as he thought about John, bleeding out on the floor at home. Hopefully the ambulance had arrived in enough time to save him.

Bobby watched conflicting emotions chase each other across Dean's face. The boy really was too young to help with this kind of a task. But he wanted to be useful, so who was Bobby to say no? Dean had obviously developed some form of attachment to Sam, who seemed like a nice man, and Bobby didn't feel right keeping the Dean away from him. Heaven knows that the boy needed people to look up to—people who were better than Bobby, better than John, even—and if this Sam was going to be one of those people, that was fine by Bobby. This Castiel character, on the other hand…Bobby eyed the strange man. One of the two strangers would have some explaining to do, and Bobby wasn't up for making Sam do much talking for a few days. So that left Castiel…yeah, like that was gonna work. Bobby chuckled inwardly, Castiel was such a nerd. Couldn't even rouse a man to take a drink. Speaking of…Bobby paused his inner dialogue to observe Sam weakly nabbing the bottle from Dean. The kid wasn't gonna…not after puking…Bobby groaned as Sam downed half the bottle in a few long swigs.

"I swear, boy, if that comes back up—" Bobby sighed.

Sam looked at Bobby, stared him dead in the eyes. "It won't."

Bobby nodded his affirmation; waited until the kid's eyes started drooping before laying a garbage bag next to his torso.

"Castiel—help me get me outta his clothes, okay?"

Bobby wished he had a camera to take a snapshot of Castiel's wide-eyed horror. "Are you…sure?"

Bobby frowned. "I don't say anything I don't mean." Okay, so maybe that wasn't quite true—but it got the point across. Castiel's hands hovered over Sam hesitantly. This ain't gonna get us anywhere…Bobby let out a frustrated huff.

"Aw, hell." He griped, grabbing the knife out of the scabbard on his belt. With one swift, careful swipe, Bobby had Sam's shirts cut straight down the center. Geez, how many layers does this kid have on? He managed to peel the soggy cotton off of the sweaty man's body, appalled to feel how high his temperature had risen in the short amount of time. Headed right down scramble-brains road…Infection was an obvious hazard, as was something like the flu or pneumonia, none of which Bobby enjoyed flushing out of anyone's system.

The jeans weren't much of a problem; slice down both pant legs and peel the fabric back—but Sam nearly screamed when Bobby accidentally jostled the knife wound. Bobby had to alternately cut and peel the denim away from the wounded site, and Sam had literally thrown a fit. Unconscious, mind you, the poor kid had drank himself to sleep and would be passed out from blood loss and exhaustion for a while anyway. But still, Sam had managed to fuss around enough that Dean had felt inclined to sit on Sam's legs to help hold him still—and Sam didn't appear to like that one bit. Castiel had just managed to catch Dean before Sam's bucking body threw him into the far wall—giving Bobby an up-close demonstration of just how much raw strength he possessed.

Finally good for something! Bobby thought as he watched Castiel gently set Dean back on the bed, reassessing the situation. Sam was clad in only his boxers now (Bobby hated causing anyone embarrassment, but the knife wound was pretty damn close to some important equipment) Bobby eyed the kid from head to foot. Nice build, he'd clearly gotten some time to work on his tan. He'd be pretty handy around a farm, or my junkyard, Bobby wondered where THAT thought had come from…his height would make it hard to fit under cars and such, but the youthful muscle was obviously there. The kids looks wouldn't hurt either, maybe he'd see a few more women glancing his scrap yard's direction every now and then. Yep, Bobby assured himself, I'm attached. Done-for. One look into that dewy, doe-eyed face and I'm a goner. He'd never had sons of his own, probably never would—but if he had, he'd be might proud if one of them had turned out like Sam.

He used a gentle hand to probe around the injury site on Sam's head—there was plenty of blood, both dried and fresh—but head wounds bled to high heaven so he wasn't extremely worried. He didn't appear to have a concussion either, and for that Bobby was eternally grateful. What concerned him more was the way that Sam pressed his head into Bobby's hand. It wasn't just "leaning into the touch" like John would sometimes do when he was too far out of it to care. No, Sam actually pressed; or more like jammed his head into the hand that Bobby was running through his damp hair, as if Sam could maybe crawl into the hand, curl up, and hide from his pain. That, accompanied by a small sound—a peaceful, almost relaxed sound—that grumbled deep in the back of Sam's throat; nearly broke Bobby's heart. Didn't the kid have anybody to help him out? A pat on the back, a friendly hug…people need human contact, reassurance! Bobby's brain insisted, though he knew deep down from the way that he had been required to earn Sam's trust; Sam didn't have anyone who could—or maybe, would—provide for that need.

It was because of this, and the disappointed whine Sam uttered when the contact was broken, that Bobby was reluctant to withdraw the hand that he knew he needed to patch Sam up.

Bobby poured a good dose of peroxide onto the gash on Sam's head, eliciting a long, loud moan from the man's throat. The bullet had just grazed him, hitting his left temple and slicing back a good three or four inches, but it wasn't deep enough to require stitches. Dean was watching intently, a pained look on his face.

"That's really hurting him, isn't it?"

Bobby nodded.

"Even though he's asleep?"

Bobby nodded again, concentrating too intensely on applying antibiotic cream to the gash to respond with a full sentence. The wound had pretty much stopped bleeding, so Bobby settled for folding a towel underneath of Sam's head and leaving the wound to air out a bit. He glanced at Dean again, who had fallen silent. The boy's face was screwed up in thought. Bobby didn't want to interrupt him, but he would need help—and Castiel didn't count. A tug on his pant leg wrenched him from his thoughts, and he cursed himself for getting distracted.

"Uncle Bobby?"

Samantha.

"Is Sammy gonna live?"

Bobby sighed for what felt like the millionth time. Why did kids always have to ask such difficult questions? Couldn't they ask about…cars? Or rainbows. Rainbows were easy to explain, weren't they?

Bobby settled for an answer that would hopefully satisfy the girl, but would allow no room for more questions. "He ain't gonna die on my clock."

"Wha' 'bout on Cas's clock?"

Did she really have to prove me wrong? Bobby huffed again, eyeing Castiel. "Castiel, doesn't have one."

The man yanked his gaze up to meet Bobby's when he heard his name.

"Yeah, you—Lazy Boy. Can you get the little one something to eat, or somethin'? Keep her occupied?"

"Don' wanna be occ-ah-pied." Samantha grouched. "I wanna help Sammy."

Damned Winchesters and their damned heroism! Castiel was still staring at Bobby, waiting for further instruction.

"You wanna help Sammy, huh?"

Samantha nodded.

"Fine." He plucked her up and set her down by Sam's head. "Ya watch his eyes, Samantha. If he blinks—do you know what blinkin' is—if he blinks, ya let me know, 'kay?"

Samantha nodded affirmatively.

"Dean…" Bobby grabbed both of Sam's wrists and wrapped them loosely together with a strip of one of Sam's many shirts. "You hold his hands above his head, got that? Hold 'em tight."

Dean nodded, happy to have something to do, and crawled over to sit next to his sister, gently taking Sam's large hands in his own. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand through the t-shirt for a better grip.

"Castiel?" he waited for the man's brain to catch up before continuing. "Hold his legs down. And ya hold him good. This is gonna hurt like a mother—" he caught himself before defiling the young ones' ears.

Bobby had his hand darn near ready when Samantha made an excited noise.

"He bwinked!"

Was that a "he blinked"? Bobby cringed. Crap on a cracker.

"Wha…oomph" Sam struggled weakly against Dean's grasp, gasping in pain when Castiel's grip on Sam's legs reminded him that he was restrained.

"Keep him steady, Dean." Bobby admonished sternly. Dean nodded. Bobby patted Sam's shoulder gently, his fingers feeling like they got burned when they came in contact with Sam's bare skin.

"Settle down, son, we gotcha."

Sam's eyes met Bobby's frantically, but it was clear by the way that Sam's movements were becoming sluggish that he was losing his grasp on lucidity. Glassy, feverish chocolate eyes slowly slid shut in exhaustion. They flew open when Samantha started running her chubby little hands through his sweaty hair. Bobby wasn't sure if he should tell Samantha to stop, or keep going. Little children didn't quite have full control of their motor functions, and he didn't want her hands straying near the gash, but her touch seemed to be calming Sam considerably. Samantha grinned, giggling softly.

"It okay, puppy. We's have ta be good for Uncle Bobby."

She named him Puppy. Bobby smirked. Sam had better not catch her calling him that when he's fully awake.

The room was eerily quiet as the small group waited for Sam to fall asleep again. It was probably hard for him while they were all watching, but Bobby knew that pain and exhaustion would win out over embarrassment—it happened every time.

"I thinks he's asleep." Samantha pronounced quietly. Bobby nodded; Sam's breathing had finally evened out. Samantha stopped playing with Sam's hair and moved to stroke his cheek.

"Samantha…why don't you keep playing with his hair, okay?" Dean frowned, and Bobby was of the same opinion—he wasn't so sure Sam would like her petting his face.

"But…" Samantha eyed Bobby suspiciously, perhaps hoping he would intervene. Not always into playing the peacemaker, Bobby did.

"Do as your brother says."

Samantha pouted.

Now is NOT the time for this…

Dean came to the rescue again. "Samantha, I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that puppies like their fur being pet better than their nose."

Samantha cocked her head. "So I pets his hair again?"

Dean nodded encouragingly.

"But Dean, you's don't read books."

Dean had the good sense to remain silent when he saw that Samantha had resumed petting Sam's hair. Her head was bent down near Sam's her lips near his ear. She was muttering something to him, Bobby wasn't sure what, wasn't sure he wanted to know either. From the look on her face, she was lamenting her brother's power over her. Dean pulled his bottom lip inbetween his teeth again as Bobby frowned, his patience finally beginning to wear thin. He really, really wanted this night to be over. He hated driving in the rain. He hated fretting about the Winchesters, especially while driving in the rain. He hated hotels, motels, and any other thing that ended with "tel" and usually handed out hundreds of cockroaches as complimentary roomies. He hated blood, hated needles, fishing wire, antiseptic, and gauze. He hated what he was going to have to do next the most.

Sam was out cold, Castiel and Dean were still in position. It was now or never. He wrapped a hand carefully around the hilt of the knife. It was deep—worryingly deep. Bobby had seen this knife before; Maggie kept it in her boot, practiced throwing it at the dart board on her spare time. And boy did she know how to use it. Which meant it had hit its intended target, and had burrowed itself deep. The blade, from what Bobby could remember, had thick barbs that angled toward the knife's hilt. Designed to go in easy; inflict maximum damage on the way out. Which naturally meant maximum pain as well.

Bobby closed his eyes. Counted to three. Pulled.

None of them were able to react fast enough. Bobby was nearly one-hundred-percent positive that Sam's agonized scream would be heard in the next town ten miles over. When his ears finally stopped ringing, and he opened his eyes, Bobby's heart sank. Dean sprawled next to Sam on the bed, out cold. Castiel was sitting dazedly on his bum, looking as if he'd been kicked by a horse. A lump most likely named Samantha could be seen under the covers of the opposite bed; Bobby guessed she wouldn't be making an appearance for a while. What was worse, Bobby realized, was that his hand was empty. The knife was still lodged in Sam's bleeding hip. Which only meant one thing…it had gotten stuck in the bone.

Bobby ran a hand over his face, assessing the damage Sam might have done to himself—he'd certainly done a number on everyone else. His wrists were no longer bound, Bobby guessed one of the flailing appendages was what had knocked Dean out. Sam was curled in on himself, shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and frantic, mumbling incoherently. Bobby was dead certain that one of the few real phrases that tumbled out of the pained babbling was "help me". Bobby heaved another long-suffering sigh. It was going to be one very long night.

Let me know what you think…I know you will =)