Dean let out a small sigh as they finally pulled into the salvage yard. The rain was pounding down, little rivets and pools of water ran throughout the yard, and at that moment, Bobby's house looked like heaven on earth.
"Sammy, grab the bags."
The brothers worked together to gather their things while also transporting their extra cargo. The kid still hadn't woken up, but he was warmer and looked a little better. Dean trudged up to the front door and kicked it in a lazy form of a knock.
Bang...Bang!
"Wait a damn minute!" muffled curses and shuffling accompanied multiple clicks as the door unlocked. Finally, Bobby's tired face appeared in the doorway, shotgun in hand.
"Dammit, Dean, you were supposed to be here an hour ago, and- what the hell is that?" Bobby suddenly stopped, mid-lecture, and stared at the bundle in Dean's arms.
Dean slipped past Bobby and into the house, "This, Bobby, is a kid. At least, we think so. Weren't able to do all the tests on the road."
"So, you just bringing some random kid into my house without even knowing if he's human?"
Sam sighed as he dropped the bags in the hall, slamming the door behind him. "We found him in the middle of the road, passed out. He seems pretty beat up."
Dean shuffled into the living room before laying the kid on the couch. He frowned as he got a better look; the kid was skinny, criminally so, and had a severe case of panda eyes, making Dean wonder when the last time the kid had an actual night's sleep was.
Bobby walked into the living room with a black duffle bag. Dean knew from experience that this bag was basically a giant first aid kit.
"Dean, find the kid a change of clothes; I still got some of Sam and your old clothes in the attic. Sam, get me some blankets and towels."
"Got it." Both brothers disappeared into the house as Bobby kneeled by the couch.
"Alright, kid, let's see what's wrong with ya."
Bobby Singer did not enjoy surprises. Most surprises in his life had been absolute shitshows, typically scarring, world-ending, and all-around, well, shitshows. So when his boys were not only an hour late but also came in carrying a random injured kid, Bobby quickly decided that it was going to be a long night. He was too damn old for this.
"Alright, kid, let's see what's wrong with ya."
And boy, was there a lot wrong. The kid was freezing, probably hypothermic, and his skin was pale. Not the 'I haven't been out in the sun in a while pale,' but the 'I'm half-dead kind of pale.' He was also skinny. His ribs jutted out of his skin, and his wrists and arms looked like twigs. What drew Bobby's attention was the roadmap of scars on the kid's skin. They were the kind of scars that only came from a violent life as a hunter or a long history of abuse. Bobby was betting on the latter.
Bobby heard Sam reenter the room and turned to grab whatever blankets he had scrounged up.
Sam was staring at the kid, "Jesus! What the hell happened to him?"
"Won't know that until he wakes up. Now help me get him dry."
They worked together to get the boy undressed and dry. Dean came in with an old pair of pajamas that might have been Sam's at one point. The brothers worked to get the boy dressed while Bobby went into the kitchen to heat up some leftovers. He quickly got out some macaroni n' cheese with hotdogs—the dinner of champions, or hunters in this case.
After a few rounds in the microwave, Bobby split the food into two bowls and carried them into the living room. Sam had sunk into one of the leather armchairs while Dean had crashed onto the couch by the kid's feet. Both brothers' heads perked up when they saw the bowls in Bobby's hands. Dean made childish grabby hands for his bowl and started to wolf the macaroni down so fast that if Bobby didn't know any better, he thought Dean would choke. Sam accepted his bowl with a wordless thanks and dug in, slightly more civilized than his brother.
"So, either of you idjits wanna tell me why there's an passed out kid on my couch?"
Dean groaned and rubbed his eyes, "We told you, Bobby. Found him in the road, dead to the world. Tested him with salt and iron and then took him with us."
"Has he moved?"
Sam shifted and set his bowl on a pile of books, "Not at all. We found him right after the storm started. No idea how long he's been there."
Bobby grabbed Sam's bowl and tossed it back to him. "Put that shit in the kitchen." He glared at Dean, "You too."
The brothers groaned and pushed themselves up; Bobby called after them, "Get to bed; we'll talk more in the morning. I'll watch the kid."
Dean waved over his shoulder as he followed his brother deeper into the house. Bobby could hear running water and some bitching before both boys stomped upstairs and into the guest rooms. Bobby peered into the kitchen; the two bowls were freshly washed and placed on a nearby towel.
Bobby chuckled. Yeah, his boys could be idjits, but they were good boys through and through.