"Page the neurosurgeon on call. Tell OR to put electives on hold. Move trauma 2 to bed 7 as soon as it's clean."
"Gunshot wound to the right frontal area, no exit wound found. Breathing spontaneously. Respiratory rate 18 and shallow. RST at 120. BP 90 over 60. GCS 5."
"Push 80 grams of Mannitol over 30. Prep for intubation."
"Air entry clear to bases."
"Let's get a central line in here now. Get him out of here."
One of the nurses turned to Dean, who had been following the gurney the paramedics had wheeled Bobby in on. "Sorry. You need to stay out of their way. We need to get him stable."
"Okay, but when are you gonna take the bullet out?" Dean demanded, unwilling to allow himself to be ushered out of the room.
"If we can get the swelling down, if it's in a place we can get to, if..."
The nurse's words faded away and all Dean could hear was if, if, if as the door closed between them.
. * * * .
"Dean? Dean?! Dean!"
Blinking, the world came back into focus and Castiel's concerned face filled his vision. "Cas? What are you doing here?"
"You called me." Cas knelt in front of him, hands on Dean's knees. "Don't you remember? You weren't very clear, but when you said 'hospital'..." Cas swallowed. "Are you alright? What happened?"
"Bobby," Dean croaked. "It's Bobby, they— He—" His eyes filled with tears at the memory of his boss - no, his friend - lying on the ground, pale and motionless, head haloed in a pool of blood.
Castiel sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Oh, please, no. "What about Bobby?" he pressed. When Dean didn't answer, he tried again more desperately. "Dean, what happened?!"
"They... They shot him. They shot him right in the head, and he..."
Castiel's vision swam with unshed tears, and he blinked them away because Dean needed him. Dean was upset, and in shock, and he needed him. Needed him to be strong, to be— A choked sob burst past his lips, then Dean was pulling him up into an awkward hug.
They stayed like that for several minutes, Cas wrapped in Dean's unyielding arms, comforting each other until Castiel's initial shock had worn off.
"He's in surgery," Dean explained once they'd let go, eyes fixed beyond a set of double doors as if he could see Bobby on the other side.
Cas moved to sit beside him, hugging Dean's arm and resting his head on his shoulder. He followed Dean's gaze toward the doors through which his employer and friend was battling for his life. "Is he going to..?" he trailed off, unable to finish the question. Saying it out loud would make the whole situation seem more real, somehow.
"Don't say it, Cas," Dean said, his voice breaking over the words. "He can't die."
There were so many things he wanted to say to Bobby, now that he was faced with the possibility of never getting to say anything to him ever again. How much he appreciated Bobby giving him a chance, when no-one else would. How grateful he was that Bobby understood when Dean didn't turn up to work on the anniversary of his mother's death. Bobby had never been just a boss, he'd been family. And he so badly wanted him to know, damn it.
"He's stubborn," Cas offered. He wasn't going to offer Dean platitudes, because everything wasn't going to be alright. Even if Bobby pulled through, he'd been shot in the head. In his brain. "He'll fight to stay alive with everything he has."
As much as Dean wanted to believe it - to believe that Bobby would be okay - a traitorous part of his brain asked, But what if it wasn't enough?
. * * * .
"Push 30 more of Mannitol over 10. CBC and 'lytes. Bolus him with 500 saline."
"The vitals were stable two minutes ago."
"Well, he's crashing now."
. * * * .
"Dean? Castiel?"
They looked up in unison to see Jody Mills standing in front of them.
"Jody," Cas breathed.
"I'm afraid it's Sheriff Mills today," she said sympathetically. "Can either of you tell me what happened at the garage?"
Her words were official, her tone calm, but her pained expression reminded Cas that she and Bobby were friends. He shook his head. "I wasn't there." He turned to Dean, who was staring at the floor again, and put a hand on his shoulder.
"I told Bobby I was leaving. He said he'd see me tomorrow. And then..."
"Can you identify the car? Make, model?" Jody asked kindly.
"I should be able to," Dean said, his voice hollow. "I'm a mechanic, cars are what I do, but... It all happened so fast."
"Any detail helps," she pressed him gently. "No matter how small."
"Red." The stain on Bobby's hat as it settled in front of him. Dean swallowed. "The car was red." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I—" He cut off as his voice cracked.
"It's okay," Jody assured him warmly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.
Castiel wondered if this was the kinder version of the 'mom voice' she'd once threatened Dean with.
"That's at least something to go on just now. We can take a full statement tomorrow. Either you can come in, or I can swing by the garage..?" She trailed off as she realised Dean might be listening, but he wasn't hearing her. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out her card. "Give me a call and I can take your statement whenever you're free." She was talking to Dean, but addressed Castiel as well to make sure that at least one of them was taking in what she was saying. "I want to catch the son of a bitch who did this."
. * * * .
"Blood pressure 130 over 90."
"I think we've got him. Good work, people."
. * * * .
"He's, uh, stable for the moment," a doctor told them, some time later. "We'll just have to see."
"Stable's good, right?"
The doctor looked at Dean hesitantly. "Well, it's not bad. It's hard to say in cases like this. We'll see if the swelling goes down. Like I said, time will tell."
"But he's lasted this long, so that's something, right?"
Cas slipped his hand into Dean's and squeezed.
"Well, yes," the doctor reluctantly agreed. "Listen – the bullet didn't shatter. Only one hemisphere of his brain was injured. These are all positive things. But I don't want to give you false hope here. He's far from out of the woods. Most of the time, cases like this..."
"They die," Cas finished for him.
"Right now it comes down to him. I'll keep you updated."
Dean turned to Cas helplessly as the doctor walked away, then looked down as if only just realising that Cas was holding his hand.
"Excuse me," a man said, walking up to them. "Sorry to interrupt—"
"Yes, we're together, and no, I don't give a shit what you have to say about it!" Dean snapped at the man.
"Oh! That's, um, nice?" The man offered uncertainly. "I know this is a stressful time, so I'm sorry to ask, but do you know if Mr Singer ever made his wishes known in regards to organ donation?"
Dean stared at the man. "What?" he asked quietly and, although his voice was shaky, his tone was like steel.
"It's just that organs are only viable for a very limited window—"
"'Viable'?"
"We're just hoping some good can come of this tragic—"
Dean's hand fell from Castiel's as shoved the man hard against the wall. "Listen to me," he growled, "because I'm gonna say this once."
"Dean."
"He's not gonna die."
"Dean."
"It's one bullet."
"Dean!"
"He's gonna be fine," Dean choked. His shoulders were shaking, and he wasn't sure if it was anger, or fear, or grief that was strangling him.
"DEAN WINCHESTER!" Ellen shouted.
Only it wasn't Ellen. It was Cas. Dean blinked, confused, as the man in front of him seemed to change. For a moment, Dean was back in the Roadhouse, and he had that homopohobic piece of shit pressed up against the wall. Anger, then. It was anger that held him in its vice-like grip.
"I apologise," the man babbled, wide-eyed. "Of course they're doing everything they can."
Dean raised his fist, pulled his arm back. The guy flinched, but Dean's fist slammed into the glass-covered sign inches from the man's head instead. "Walk away from me," he growled. "Now!"
The man didn't need to be told twice, and bolted without a backwards glance at them.
"Dean?"
Grief. Tears rolled down Dean's cheeks as he turned around. "Cas?"
Cas pulled him into his arms and held him as he sobbed.
"Our Lord in Heaven, please watch over Bobby Singer," Castiel said quietly, his lips moving against Dean's skin. "Please don't let this be his time. Help him find his way back to those who love him."
Dean focused less on Castiel's words and more on his voice to keep him afloat, as the sinking feeling in his stomach threatened to pull him under. Fear.
. * * * .
When they walked into the Roadhouse later that night and sat down at the bar, Ellen took one look at their long faces and asked humorously, "Who died?"
"Bobby," Dean choked out.
The glass in her hand fell to the floor, but she seemed not to notice as it smashed at her feet. "What?"
"Bobby's dead," Cas told her softly. "He just died."
Another couple staggered into the bar and, without looking at them, Ellen muttered, "We're closed."
The man, redfaced and ready to kick off, argued, "But the sign says—""
Ellen pulled a shotgun out from under the counter. "I said we're closed!"
She followed them to the door, locking it behind them and turning off the switch for the outer sign. Moving back to the bar, she reached for a bottle and poured them all a generous glass of whiskey each.
"To Bobby Singer," she began, her voice strained, the others following suit as she raised her glass, "a grumpy old drunk with a heart of gold."
Dean drained his glass in one go, and had barely set it down on the bar before it was refilled.
"What happened?" Ellen asked once she'd had a couple of drinks in her.
Dean's bottom lip quivered. "Drive-by shooting."
"So it wasn't his heart, or his liver. It wasn't natural causes."
"No."
Her jaw clenched visibly, then she made a sudden grab for the bottle and retreated to the back room.
Jo took another bottle and refilled their glasses, topping up Castiel's even though he'd just had a sip. "You know Mom and Bobby were— Well, they're too old to call it dating, but... they'd been flirting. A lot. And they'd gone out a couple of times. I think it was going somewhere."
"He never said," Castiel spoke up.
Jo shrugged. "Neither did Mom. I just paid attention." She sniffed. "She's been lonely since Dad..." She trailed off, before trying again. "Bobby made her smile."
"At least she got to have a little bit of happiness, even if it was fleeting," Castiel offered.
"Yeah," Jo agreed. "But maybe she'd have been better off if she hadn't. It'd hurt less, you know?"
Dean nodded and spoke to his drink. "I'm with Jo. Screw 'It's better to have loved and lost'."
"Well, if it had been you—" Castiel choked on his words at the thought of losing Dean. "I'd be heartbroken."
Dean glanced over at him.
"But I'd be grateful for all the time we'd've had together."
Dean lowered his gaze, still looking at Cas but not meeting his eyes. "I want more time."
"So do I," Cas told him.
"So does everyone," Jo pointed out.
"I want more time with you." Only then did Dean meet Castiel's eyes.
Castiel stared at him for a long moment, reading the emotion in his eyes. "Let's go home," he said, sliding off the stool.
"I'll let you out and lock up behind you again," Jo told them. "Then I'll go check on Mom."
. * * * .
When they got home, Dean hovered awkwardly in the corridor as if he was a stranger in his own home. "Cas, I know what I said this morning... but I'm not really up for anything tonight, okay?"
Castiel's shoulders sagged in disappointment that Dean would think him that unaffected by Bobby's death. Then it hit him that Dean was probably in denial and trying to carry on as if everything was the same. But it would never be the same again. It would be okay, in time, but it would never be the same.
"Neither am I. Dean, you may have known Bobby for a lot longer than I did, but that doesn't mean he wasn't very dear to me. I love him, I'm grateful for everything he did for me, and I am going to miss him very much. But right now I'm tired, and am going to bed, and would like to snuggle with my boyfriend as I fall asleep."
Perhaps allowing Dean to act as if everything was normal wasn't the best choice, but Cas knew that, for now, it was what Dean needed. His boyfriend tore his gaze away from his feet and looked up at Cas with tears in his eyes.
"Yeah," Dean croaked. "Okay. Sorry."
Cas took his hand and led the way to their bedroom.