A/N: Aha! A new chapter has arrived. I had this one mostly written, and just couldn't quite get out the last few paragraphs, but it is finally finished now! I don't think I've said it yet, but thank you all for your reviews, every one makes me smile.

Warnings: this chapter has a little swearing and light descriptions of injuries.

At fourteen years old Dean was more of a first aid technician than he was a kid. Doctors and hospitals were both expensive, and dangerous, in their line of work, so as soon as Dean was old enough to understand, John had begun to teach him first aid. Some hunts had John away from his boys for days at a time, and Dean needed to know what to do if Sam was sick or injured. As Dean grew older, John taught him more, so that by the age of fourteen, he knew things that most first aid certified people didn't. He had stitched his dad up more times than he could count, and had once even cauterized deep cuts from a werewolf when there was no first aid kit nearby.

Dean placed his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders, preparing to have to hold him down. Bobby made sure he was ready, then took the bottle of rubbing alcohol, pouring a generous amount onto Sam's chest. As soon as contact was made, Sam's eyes flew open, and he gasped in pain. Dean waited for the inevitable struggle but it never came. Instead, his body went straight. It seemed as if he was trying as hard as he could to hold completely still.

He was near silent the whole time they worked on him, which was almost worse than if he had been screaming. After his chest was clean they flipped him over. His back was littered in neat lines that were several shades of red. Dean tried to think of a monster that could have made injuries like that, but found himself coming up short.

"Bobby, you ever see a monster that made marks like that?" Dean wondered. Bobby's face was set in anger.

"Yeah, son," he replied. "I know exactly what kinda monster makes marks like that."

"What kind?" Dean wanted to know. Bobby didn't reply, his jaw set tightly as he began methodically cleaning Sam's back. None of the cuts here looked in danger of becoming infected, but they were better safe than sorry. They gently rolled him back over after finishing.

"Keep an eye on 'im," Bobby instructed Dean, then walked over to the small table in the room, grabbing a beer on the way. It had been an unnecessary instruction; the only thing that could have pulled Dean away from Sam would have been a monster attack, and that would have only been to protect his brother.

Dean didn't realize he was falling asleep until he was awoken sometime later to the hotel room door banging open, and loud awkward footsteps entering. Dean searched for the source of the noise, and found his father, disheveled and clearly drunk. Bobby, who had been sitting on the opposite side of Sam's bed got up angrily and shoved John out of the door, muttering something about "drunk bastards messing everything up". Bobby also exited the door, and went down the hall, dragging John with him. Sam's eyes began fluttering open, but Dean quickly reassured him.

"Shh. S'okay Sammy. Bobby's takin' care of it. I'm stayin' right here. I gotchu." Sam's breath evened out again, and the lines of worry in his forehead smoothed out. Sleep began to tug at Dean again, and though he fought as hard as he could, he soon succumbed.

Despite how angry Bobby was when he reentered the room, he couldn't help the small smile that pulled at his lips at the sight of Dean, with his hand in Sam's, and his head on the side of Sam's bed, snoring softly. He resumed his earlier position sitting on the other side of Sam. He wouldn't be getting much rest tonight, but that was okay. This wouldn't be the first time he's pulled an all-nighter keeping an eye on one of his boys.

Sam awoke the next morning slowly. His eyes fluttered awake carefully, and he surveyed his surroundings with caution. Above him, the ceiling was water stained and dirty. To his right, he could feel a light breath of air. Turning his head revealed the source to be Dean, breathing slowly and evenly as he slept. To his left, sat Bobby. A book was in his hands, and he turned the pages slowly.

"Mornin' Sam," Bobby's eyes never left his book.

"Morning," Sam replied, although his voice was scratchy, and all that really came out was 'mor-hrrmph'. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Morning." He went to sit up, and noticed that Dean had intertwined their hands together. He extracted his hand gently, being careful not to wake up Dean, who often reacted like a bear in hibernation when startled awake before he was ready. Bobby helped him sit up, and handed him a glass of water from off the nightstand. Sam drank in moderation, passing the cup back to Bobby with a muttered 'thanks'.

"How're ya feelin'?" Bobby questioned after Sam had rehydrated.

"Better," Sam didn't even attempt to lie. Even Dean was smart enough not to lie to Bobby about his injuries and illnesses. Bobby could see through both of them like a glass pane, and would always call them out on their crap. "Still sore. Feel kinda gross. Almost like I ran a marathon and didn't shower afterwards." Sam's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Tends to happen when you have a fever all day and don't tell nobody," Bobby snarked.

"Oh," Sam could think of nothing to reply. "I'm hungry."

"How does veggie pizza sound?" Bobby was only half serious. It's all that's in the hotel room right now, but he'll be damned if he won't go out and buy Sam whatever he wants to eat. Dean too. Those two boys deserved the world, and got peanuts instead.

"Pizza sounds really good, actually." Sam smiled, and though Bobby would deny it to anyone, his heart warmed just a little bit, because it wasn't just any smile. It was one of Sam's rare, pure smiles. The kind that were sincere, and even, dare he say, innocent.

"You got it, kid." Bobby got up and brought over the box. "Go ahead and eat it right from the box. You're the only one of us who likes grass on their pizza."

"It's not grass, Bobby, it's arugula," Sam argued goodnaturedly. "And it's good in small amounts. Besides, didn't you always tell Dean and I growing up that we needed to eat our veggies?" And didn't that hurt. 'Growing up'. As if they were already finished with that process. The last time he had told them to eat their veggies was when Sam was six, and Dean was ten. Of course, even at ten Dean hadn't really been a kid.

"Had to," Bobby responded gruffly. "You all thought bacon cheeseburgers were breakfast."

"I-is dad back yet?" Sam wondered hesitantly.

"He's sleeping off a hangover in my room. He ganked the wendigo last night, then went on a drinking spree." Bobby decided not to sugar coat things.

"He mad at me?" Sam's voice grew small.

"Nah. He's mad at Mark, and probably himself too," Bobby's arms were crossed. "Course he's too pig-brained to pull his head outta his ass and realize that he should be with his son."

"Oh," Sam took a moment to process Bobby's words. "How long has Dean been here?"

"All night," Bobby smiled fondly. "You know he cares a lot about you."

"Yeah," Sam yawned. "Hmm m'kinda tired still." He wormed his way back deeper into the mattress.

"Well, no one's stoppin' you from goin' back to sleep," Bobby tried to sound disinterested, but Sam picked up on his caring undertones. He burrowed under the blankets, and blinked slowly, allowing his surroundings to fade from awareness. Dean and Bobby would keep him safe, he didn't need to worry.