"Dean."

"Mmmph." Dean's eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the sunlight streaming through the room and settling on the old cast iron radiator ebbing heat through the room in lazy waves. He could feel the dull throb of soreness spread throughout his left side and neck from the awkward position he had finally managed to fall asleep in. Even with Bobby's pain killers and sleeping pills it was the only position he found he could lay in to alleviate the stabbing pain shooting up from his ribs every time he took a deep breath.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Bobby."

"Oh… you're awake. I just wanted to see how you're feeling."

Dean attempted to flip himself around in the bed, getting his torso rotated around partially before a stabbing pain forced him to stop, his exhale turning into a sharp bark of pain. In a second, Bobby was at his side helping him sit up.

"It's fine." Dean's voice cut sharply through the air. "Bobby…it's fine. I'm fine." He struggled up to a sitting position. "Thanks for the help, but I promise I'm capable of sitting up by myself." Dean caught a hurt look flashing across Bobby's face before it carefully disappeared underneath an expression of indifference.

Bobby withdrew a step and cleared his throat, turning back towards the door. "Okay, I'm going to go grab you some water then." He left, not turning back around to look at Dean before disappearing down the stairs.

Damnit. Dean sighed, resting his head in his hands as a feeling of guilt blossomed warmly in his chest, mixing with the dull ache throbbing outwards from the ribs underneath his bandage. His face felt foreign underneath his hands as he traced his thumb alongside the swollen, hot skin where Bobby had given him stitches. His mind felt dry—his thoughts mottled and slow as if impeded by gravel as he struggled to focus on anything other than the dull, never-ending ache pulsing throughout his entire body. Damnit Dean. There had been no reason for him to yell at Bobby for just trying to help him. When was he going to stop hurting the people he loved? First, he had royally fucked things up with his dad. He'd lost Sam and then undermined his trust by calling Bobby – it was going to take ages for him to get things back to normal with his father after this whole mess was figured out. He'd screamed at Sam, mad about something they all knew he was going to do, that he should go do. And now, here he was snapping at Bobby who'd never wanted to do anything but help him. A sharp throb of pain pulsed behind the back of his eyelids in a red haze.

"Here you go kid."

Dean looked up to see Bobby standing beside him, arm extended with a glass of water.

He gulped it down quickly, thankful for the relief that it brought to the dryness in his throat; he hadn't even realized that he was thirsty. Bobby stood by his side, quietly eyeing him until he announced, "I think it's time to change your bandages." Dean looked down, seeing the faintly red ichor that had crusted on the edge of his bandages. God, he had to look like such a mess. Suddenly, he could feel all the heat flowing steadily from the radiator and laying stagnantly underneath his scratchy blankets accumulating, making him his heart beat furiously and his face flush red. He needed to get out of this bed. "Okay." He threw the blankets off and let the cool rush in, providing instant relief. "Downstairs?"

Several minutes later, he and Bobby sat in quiet of the kitchen, the sunlight streaming in to illuminate faded, chipping tile. Bobby had thankfully helped him down the stairs, having the good graces to not mention it as he had given him a shoulder for support as a lead. But nothing could have been as embarrassing at what had happened yesterday—honestly, Dean was surprised he wasn't immune to embarrassment entirely by now. All those times he'd sat here helpless in this kitchen, those times he'd depended on his little brother to stay up late and help him clean up after a fight, those times he'd been cornered by teachers, looks of worry plastered on their faces as they asked him is anything was wrong at home; you'd think he'd be accustomed to embarrassment by now. All because he constantly fucked up. Because he couldn't defend himself— wouldn't defend himself—because he was so worried about making things worse…fucking pathetic. He could use a beer. He made his way to the fridge, grabbing a Bud Light before easing himself down onto the stool Bobby had set out for him. He purposefully avoiding looking at the lumpy reflection of his swollen face leering at him through the kitchen window. The kitchen hummed with the sound of the sink as Bobby washed a pair of scissors and some tweezers, the heat steaming from his hands and rising like tendrils in the soft light streaming through the window. They sat in silence as he cleaned methodically, continuing the slightly strained tension that they had yet to address since their conversation in the car the night before. Dean took another deep gulp from his beer as he began to feel his thoughts loosen and the throb in his side becoming slightly less distinct. He always hated this part. Sitting on this stool in this kitchen, shirtless and vulnerable in the open lighting, he didn't feel like himself but rather an object to be scrutinized—a blatant portrayal of how bad things could get in his family and how much he had fucked up in front of his father.

"Hold still." Bobby came over from the sink, scissors in hand, and snatched Dean's beer out of his hand before taking a long pull and setting it down on the counter. "Thanks, needed that." he mumbled as he set to work cutting off the old set of bandages, the hot metal of the scissors pressing against Dean's skin. He carefully removed the bandages, layer by layer, as the mixed scents of gauze and dried blood began to waft through the kitchen. Dean saw Bobby's eyes darken and his mouth twitch, as if he wanted to say something, as he removed the last of the bandages before leaving the room to grab some new supplies.

Sitting alone in the kitchen, Dean chanced a look down at his side and felt his insides curl up as he caught a glimpse of the mottled assortment of sickly black and blue coloring threatening to engulf his left side. Shakingly, he pushed himself up from the chair, both hands grasping the sink as he truly examined himself in the reflection of the kitchen window for the first time since his fight with his father. Tired, bleary eyes struggled to stare back at him from swelling pressing downwards from a jagged cut above his eyebrow, stitched together somewhat unevenly with some sort of black thread. His bottom lip was split open in two spots, swollen and jutting out in almost comical fashion. Small, distinct bruises dotted his throat and sides of his arms from where he had been thrown into the wall and followed to the ground. He pressed lightly at the center of the dark bruising covering his ribs and felt the contents of his stomach threaten to come back up as the skin underneath his fingertips gave like rotten fruit. Dizzy, he returned to his stool and reached for his drink again.

"You okay Dean?" Bobby had returned from the other room, his face drawn into a worried expression. "You're looking a little pale."

"Yeah, I'm fine Bobby." Dean rested his hand on his leg and pasted on what he was hoping looked like a convincing smile. "So what's my prognosis doc? Are they broken?"

Bobby again forfeited Dean's attempt at light-heartedness as his brow furthered a little deeper and he stooped down and began poking around Dean's ribs a little. "Just two I think. You're lucky he managed to hit the two that he did—any higher and they would've been in danger of puncturing through your lungs." He started to wrap a new sheet of gauze around Dean's midsection. "So, how'd it happen?" Bobby's eyes remained carefully focused on changing Dean's bandages. "It must have been one hell of a punch to break your ribs like that. Or was this from a boot?"

Dean, caught off guard, felt his face flush red. He and Bobby usually practiced the time-honored tradition of pretending it was from someone else, or at least not delving into the specifics; Bobby had learned a long time ago that talking about it made him really uncomfortable. But it's not they could pretend it was from anywhere else this time—Bobby had picked him up passed out in front of their motel room for Christ's sakes, John too drunk to even answer the door. "Uh…" Dean swallowed and his throat felt dry. "Neither. I think it might have been his weight. I hit the ground pretty hard, but I thought I felt something crack after he got on top of me…" Dean's voice fell away as he diverted his eyes to the reflection staring back at him in the kitchen window again. He didn't continue as he let the silence envelop them once more.

"My dad broke my arm once." Bobby's voice disrupted the silence as he continued working on his ribs. "I think I was 11…maybe 12 at the time? He'd disappeared on a bender for about a week and so I ended up stealing the neighbor's car to run to the store for groceries. I wasn't old enough to get a job yet and he was the only one who brought any money home, so my mom and I were shit out of luck when he used to disappear with our only car like that. You can only steal so much food from the school cafeteria before people start to notice, you know? Hold this tight." He gestured to the end of the gauze, which was now tightly wrapped around Dean's midsection. He turned towards the counter and grabbed some safety pins. "Anyway, I ended getting caught by the cops and thrown in the station until someone could come pick me up, which—as luck would have it—was my father who had just returned from his bender to hear that his son was in jail." Bobby let out a mirthless, guttural chuckle, shaking his head slightly. He bent down, starting to secure the bandage with the pins. "Let's just say he wasn't happy to hear his son was a felon; by the time that night was over, I looked about how you do right now kid."

Bobby's eyes skimmed across Dean's face, analyzing the bruising and swelling. Grabbing his chin lightly, Bobby turned Dean's head slightly to the left. He turned to the counter, rummaging around in a first aid kit for a couple seconds before returning with a small bottle of antiseptic. "This is going to hurt." An intense, burning sensation screamed across Dean's forehead as Bobby applied an ample amount of antiseptic to his stitches with a wash rag. "As soon as my arm healed up, I went out and got a job as a farmhand; no more depending on my father for grocery money." Bobby lapsed into a concentrated silence as he continued to clean up Dean's other cuts and bruises. Dean shifted uncomfortably. Bobby didn't really talk about his life before hunting very often; a dark shadow enveloped his face anytime it was brought up. From the few, clipped stories that Bobby had shared—mostly when he was cleaning up Dean—his father had been a real bastard. And while it didn't make Dean necessarily more comfortable talking about his failings with his own father, it did lessen his embarrassment somewhat.

"Fuck, Bobby!" He jolted backwards as an intense pain erupted from his side where Bobby had just pushed his finger into. "They're broken alright? I promise you, they're broken and maybe we should just stop touching them." Bobby looked up at him, eyebrows raised in exasperation. "I'm just figuring out where the break is you big baby." Dean felt a faint sense of relief hearing Bobby talk like himself again. "It's better that we figure it out now instead of later; then we'll know how long you're going to need to heal up." As Bobby fingers prodded carefully along the broken area, Dean reached for his drink again, feeling the necessity for alcohol returning. After draining the rest of his can, he focused his eyes strictly on a faded section of the ceiling and pinched his leg to provide a distraction from the pain in his ribs. After what seemed like an eternity, Bobby announced "Looks like they're both clean breaks. You're not going to be running marathons anytime soon, but I'd say you should be up and around pretty well in about two weeks." Bobby gestured towards Dean's neck. "How's the bruising feeling? I can't really do much about that."

Dean's lifted his hand to his neck, self-conscious of the finger-sized bruises spanning across his windpipe and arms. He drummed on his ring finger on his throat subconsciously. "They're okay…he doesn't usually go for the neck or the face…"

"I know Dean."

"And, uh, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad that you understand, but your thing with your dad isn't really like my thing." Bobby stared at him. "My dad would never hurt me just to hurt me; he can be a real dick sometimes, but he's not like that—it's more of a discipline thing. I mean, you know him." Dean could hear his voice coming out with a hint of desperation, his words starting to ramble together. His hand moved to start rubbing the back of his neck—something he did when he was nervous. "He's a good guy. Just a little…intense. And he'd never hurt Sam, he just expects more out of me because I'm the oldest and he depends on me. He's just… he's just got a lot on his plate."

Dean felt his shoulders start to slump. Why was he defending him? The man had snapped his ribs like spaghetti and almost given him a concussion not even two nights ago. He literally could not help himself from rushing to his father's defense whenever someone made the slightest accusation. Why did he do that? Sam would never do that; he'd never let John treat him the way the way he did Dean. Sam didn't feel the need to constantly follow John around like a lost dog, desperately seeking approval and lapping any sort of attention that happened to be thrown his way. Sam wasn't so…pathetic.

Dean lowered his head to look at the ground, the throbbing pain beginning to pulse painfully behind his eyes again. Bobby continued to sit there quietly, looking at him with something close to sadness; Dean could feel heat flushing throughout his body as he sat there under scrutiny. Damnit, he hated having to talk about this. "It's not something you need to worry about." Another wave of pain throbbed through his skull. "It's just a family issue." Fuck this headache… Much to his embarrassment, he could feel his eyes begin to water up as his conflicting feelings about his father mixed with the pain pulsing through his head. He looked up at Bobby, hoping that could get through this without making a complete and utter fool of himself. "I'm just…" He felt his voice break. Too late. "…sorry." He let his fall down again, trying to get his eyes to stop watering by rubbing with them with the palms of his hands. He had to look so pathetic. He maintained his gaze downwards, trying to gain control of his breathing when he felt a steady, warm hand rest on his shoulder as Bobby knelt down beside him. "It's okay Dean." he heard Bobby say quietly. Bobby wrapped his arm fully around Dean's shoulder, almost in a hug. "It's okay. It's going to be okay…"

They sat like this for a few minutes until Dean managed to get himself under control. He looked up at Bobby, face red partially from embarrassment and partially from tearing up. He fought the immediate urge to apologize for being such a mess and instead choked out, "Thanks for picking me up Bobby." And for once, Bobby broke out in what seemed to be a real smile. "Anytime, kid."

Bobby cleared his throat and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, that's enough of that. Why don't we get you back upstairs? Who knows, tomorrow – if you're not a pain in the ass—I may even let you come downstairs and watch tv for a bit, if you think you're up for it that is."

Dean smiled, leaned back and opened the fridge, gathering four Bud Lights into the crook of his left arm. "For the road." With that he extended his arm, letting Bobby wrap it around his shoulders as he helped Dean from the chair and up the stairs to the warmth of the guest room.