Bobby walked into the kitchen with the first aid kit tucked under his arm. Sam had yet to come downstairs and Dean was standing at the sink gazing out the window at the junk yard; a cup of coffee was in one hand and his other was gripping the edge of the counter so hard the knuckles were white.

Bobby put the kit down onto the table and then pulled the chair back, wincing as it scraped across the tiled floor. Dean jumped at the sound but didn't turn around.

"Dean, sit down," Bobby said quietly. He snapped the locks on the first aid kit and began taking out the supplies needed to fix Sam's hand. Dean didn't answer.

"Sit down," Bobby said again, this time a little louder. Dean didn't budge. Stifling a loud sigh of impatience, Bobby walked over and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Look at me," Bobby ordered. Dean flinched slightly but his gaze to the outside world never wavered. Bobby shook him roughly.

"I said, 'Look at me!'", Bobby snapped. Finally, Dean blinked and his eyes slid over to look at him. Bobby's next words died on his lips and his impatience immediately evaporated. Dean looked utterly destroyed. His face was pale and pinched with grief and his green eyes were filled with tears. He looked like he was going to collapse and Bobby's hand tightened on his now shaking shoulder.

"Dean, come on you need to sit down." Bobby all but carried Dean over to the table, having taken the cup of coffee from his hand and leaving it on the counter. He sat Dean down in the chair next to him and then went back to the counter and reached for something a lot stronger than coffee. Whiskey.

He poured the honey colored liquid into three glasses and brought them back to the table.

He set one down in front of Dean.

"Drink it," Bobby commanded softly.

Dean looked at the glass but made no move to put it in his hand, let alone take a drink. Bobby swore silently. The mere fact that Dean Winchester was waffling at an offer of alcohol was telling him just how bad the situation had become. Bobby knew he was sick this morning from drinking too much the night before but it wouldn't have stopped Dean from having a drink in the past. From the moment Bobby found out John had died he had dreaded the coming months ahead. The boys depended on their father more than he had realized and with John gone Bobby knew his absence would affect all of them in ways they had never imagined. Sam would accept John's death but not before regretting the father-son relationship that could have been had they both seen eye to eye. But eventually, Sam would want to move forward, tuck away the memories to remember another day and become a damn good hunter in honor of his Dad. He would cope with grief by revenge and ridding the world of monsters and darkness. Dean on the other hand was the one Bobby really worried about. Dean had spent the most time with John and had followed in his shadow all of his life. He had hated John, loved him and was even a better hunter than John himself would have ever admitted. Losing John had devastated Dean on every level possible. So Dean had turned to hunting recklessly; he had turned to revenge on the yellow-eyed demon that had killed John; he had turned to working relentlessly on the impala; he had turned to alcohol and he had turned to bottling every emotion up inside. He was killing himself and Sam and Bobby both knew it.

And he was killing himself over Sam. Sam was Dean's very anchor to sanity and to family; they were both each other's saving grace in the darkness of their world. Their bond was stronger than anything Bobby had ever seen before. If one hurt, the other did too; if one needed help, the other was there no matter the cost. Dean worried about his brother and with good reason. Sam's visions were getting worse. Dean's protectiveness of his brother was fierce and as solid as concrete and the same went for Sam about Dean. Whatever hell was unleashed into their lives on a day to day basis never mattered. In the end their bond was never severed. They would ultimately die for one another.

And that last thought scared Bobby more than he would ever admit. He loved those boys like they were his own and he knew in the end, with John gone, that he was going to have to step up and be the father-figure they would come to need.

And they needed one now.

Mentally shaking himself out of his reverie, Bobby sat down in the chair beside Dean.

"Look at me son," Bobby said, forcefully using the word "son" in hopes that Dean would shake off the cloak of melancholy and fire would spark back in his eyes.

"Drink it."

Wordlessly and slowly, Dean raised the glass to his lips and took a swallow. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat to settle in his stomach. Bobby waited until he took another swallow and then sat back relieved as some of the color flooded back into his cheeks.

"Here comes Sam," Bobby whispered quietly as he turned back to the task at hand and took out gauze and bandages for Sam's cuts.

Dean turned slightly and watched silently as Sam entered the room. He walked slowly and Bobby didn't miss the brief expression of pain that flashed across Dean's face. Sam was hurting. His eyes were haunted, his face grey and he held his cut hand against his chest. Bobby knew Sam had to have one killer migraine; it was one of the effects of the visions that he had to suffer through until the strong images faded.

Bobby noticed the kid had wrapped what could only be toilet paper around his hand to help stop the bleeding and he found that amusing; Sam knew damn well they were about to give him first aid downstairs. The toilet paper could have been spared. Despite the circumstances Bobby felt the strong urge to laugh and he quickly coughed to cover it up.

"Sit down Sam," Bobby said gruffly, "Have a drink and let me see your hand." Sam nodded and did as he was told without a word. He sat down opposite his brother and Bobby and held out his hand; with his free hand he grabbed his glass and took a small sip of whiskey.

The silence in the room was deafening as Bobby cleaned Sam's wound and unwrapped a bandage to dress it. The cut would heal without stitches, although it was still a pretty nasty cut.

"All right, done," Bobby declared. He gathered the bloody gauze, the empty packages of bandages and the empty tubes of antibiotic ointment; he got to his feet and walked over to the trash can.

"I thought you boys were going to talk," He said, washing his hands at the sink and turning to see them watching him as he dried his hands with a dish towel.

Dean lowered his gaze and took another long swallow of whiskey, emptying his glass. Sam took another sip but didn't say a word either.

Bobby sighed heavily.

"I'm going to put up the first aid kit and then go upstairs and clean up the glass in the bathroom."

"Bobby, I can do-"Sam spoke up, his voice hoarse. Bobby cut him off.

"I can handle it. It's okay Sam." Bobby walked over and placed his hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it gently.

"I'll be back downstairs when I'm through."

He walked towards the hallway, pausing as he walked past Dean and whispered, "Talk," before he left the kitchen.

Bobby only hoped that when he returned the atmosphere would be different, the air not thick with emotion and the room not as silent as a mausoleum.