AN: I'm not very nice to Dean in this chapter. Sorry, handsome.

Another chapter coming today yet. And hey, if the snow and nastiness keep me inside and writing, maybe even more.

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Dean's arms were empty. He wasn't sure why this was so important, only that it was. He was supposed to be holding something, and he didn't have it any more. He tried to reach for it, call for it, find it back, but his arms felt all out of proportion and seemed to weigh a few tons each. The best he managed was to flop around a little and make some sort of pathetic, inarticulate noises.

Someone heard him, though, and a gruff but comforting voice began to speak. His arms were being held down, which was less comforting, but he trusted the voice even when he couldn't make his brain untangle the words it was saying. He felt himself relax. The hands, the voice – it was all very confusing, but he might have been drinking something. He really, really wanted to find what his arms were missing. Its absence made him feel lonesome despite the voice's reassuring cadence. Feeling bereft, he slipped back to sleep.

The next thing Dean was aware of was the fact that he was running. Behind him pounded the impossibly big paws of the hound of Baskerville, glowing fiercely, oversized teeth dripping with blood. The utter silence of its pursuit somehow made it even more terrifying. Dean forced his legs to go even faster across the old wooden floor, which seemed to stretch in front of him. He had to get to the stairs, because…whatever he was looking for was there, and it was going to fall and break.

Whatever it was, it was shrouded in darkness at the top of the towering stairs. It teetered on the rail, and Dean gasped in horror. He'd never get there in time to catch it. All he could do was run and watch as it began to plummet to the ground. The hound wasn't even chasing Dean any more, or maybe it was and he just didn't care any more. All he cared about was getting there to catch what he was missing before it hit the hard floor.

He was too late. Of course he was too late. He failed…it…again, like he always had. The indistinct bundle crashed into the floor just a few steps ahead of him, going right through the floor without a pause. Dean knew its heaviness wasn't really physical, but was because of its importance, but he still couldn't quite remember what it was. Didn't want to remember, he thought, because then he'd feel the weight of its loss. And he wasn't sure he could take that. He felt himself shrinking even as he fell to his knees next to the damning hole, the symbol of his greatest failure. He was shrinking, crushed under the weight of his loss, his inability to take care of…not something. Someone.

Sam. He'd lost Sam.

Kneeling at the edge of the bottomless hole, Dean buried his face in his hands and cried.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Accidentally smacking your own stab wound probably wasn't the greatest way to wake up, Bobby thought. He rushed to Dean's side at the man's pained inhale. Yes, man. It had taken hours, but he'd finally grown back into the young man that he'd been before his foray into the so-called hungry house.

It hadn't been easy. Dean had been plagued by dreams and delirium. He thrashed and cried out and once, tears poured down his face. It was only because he was so weak that they could hold him down and keep him from hurting himself more. Bobby had to harden his own heart against the heart-broken cries and tears and force the kid to stay in bed, and to drink as much as he could stomach whenever he was even partially awake. Dean's injury was significant, but not life-threatening now that it had been cleaned and stitched, but the witchcraft had clearly taken a lot out of the normally strong and self-controlled man. To see him so helpless, his pain so clearly evident, was simply wrong.

And that didn't even count what Bobby felt when Dean brokenly called out, only ever one word. Sammy.

For the last two hours, though, the man's slumber had been more sleep than unconsciousness, and much calmer. It was partly, Bobby thought, because he was no longer in the midst of the obviously painful process of adding a foot and a half in height and a hundred pounds in less than a day.

"Dean? Can you hear me, boy?" asked Bobby, laying a hand against Dean's sweaty forehead. He desperately hoped that this time, the man's eyes would have awareness in them.

"Um." Dean's forehead creased. He blinked and blessedly focused on Bobby's face. "Bobby? Where's Sam?"

Oh, thank whatever watched over hunters. "Your marbles back in order now, boy?" Bobby asked, tiredness and relief making his voice even gruffer than normal.

"Yeah. Sam?"

Really, what else had he expected? But he wasn't about to tell Dean that Sam had hardly twitched in the hours since Bobby had taken him from Dean's arms. "Look to your left, Dean."

Dean rolled his head like he was afraid it would come off if he moved too fast. His whole body relaxed deeper into the bed to see his brother's sleeping face less than two feet from his own. "He's okay?"

"He hasn't graced us with his eyes yet, but he's breathin' easy, and he's pretty much back to normal size. And he sure is quieter than you been." Nightmares were more Sam's purview than Dean's, but the former's rest had been far quieter than the latter's. Oh, Sam's pain had been visible on his face, but he hadn't cried out or fought his caregivers, apparently avoiding dark dreams.

Dean squinted to look his brother over better, not reacting as Bobby made sure that he hadn't started bleeding again. Bobby could practically watch the lightbulbs come on as Dean remembered what had happened. "Huh. Guess you broke the spell."

"Yes, genius. That's why you and yer brother are back to yer overgrown selves. I convinced the 'mostly sane' ghost witch to reverse it. Didn't happen all at once, though." Bobby turned away slightly, not wanting Dean to see the emotion on his face as he thought of the what ifs, how close they'd been to being too late.

But Dean's eyes were all for his brother. "He's really okay?"

"Looks like it." There, Bobby sounded almost like his normal self, and Dean was still too out of it to catch on.

"You okay?"

Or not. He really should know better than to underestimate a Winchester. "Yeah, I didn't get hurt. Just wondering if you were ever gonna wake up."

Dean's mouth curled into a half smile, and he looked more like his normal self than he had so far. "Aw, you were worried about us."

"Show some respect, idjit. Course I was worried. I expect compensation for the gas money it cost me to get here," Bobby scoffed, and Dean's grin widened.

"I – " Dean made to move, and seemed surprised to discover that his left hand was clamped firmly around Sam's forearm. He didn't let go, however.

"You seemed to be dreamin' that Sam didn't make it." Bobby busied himself getting orange juice out of the mini fridge to give Dean a modicum of privacy at the revelation. "You didn't calm til I dumped Sam over here next to you." Bobby let the silence rest for a minute. "Let's see if you can sit up. You need to drink more, and see if you can eat somethin'. You lost quite a bit of blood."

Dean grunted, but he finally let go of Sam's arm. To Bobby's eyes, it looked like Sam was nearly back to 22 years old. The clean t-shirt they'd put on him wasn't quite filled out yet, but the sweatpants were the right length. He would bet that Dean could tell him exactly how old Sam was now.

Dean didn't fight Bobby's help to sit up and scoot back against the headboard, which spoke volumes about how weak he still felt. He took the can of juice and drained it all himself and Bobby thought there was more color in his cheeks.

"Bobby," Dean's eyes were distant, trying to remember, Bobby supposed. "What happened? I thought Sam…actually, I thought I felt myself…" Bobby could easily fill in the word Dean had avoided twice. Died.

Bobby felt sick. Against his will, he pictured what he'd seen when he'd burst into Philomena's foyer.

Dean lay on the floor on his left side, his complexion so pale that his freckles stood out in stark relief even in the low light. He was curled around something he was hugging to his chest, and he didn't relinquish it as Bobby gently rolled him on his back, even though he was clearly unconscious.

A light was glowing behind Bobby and to his left, but he ignored it, even as it grew brighter and brighter. All he cared was that it allowed him to see Dean better. Bobby gasped aloud at the amount of blood soaking the boys' way too big jeans, t-shirt, and the now-loosened flannel that had obviously been used as a bandage. The boy couldn't be more than 9 or 10, and it seemed he could hardly have any blood left in the little body. Then Bobby finally noticed what Dean was holding and terror dug its cold claws even deeper into his chest.

The tiny bundle was an infant, a newborn, tiny face quiet in response under a sprinkle of dark hair and one itty-bitty fist closed around a wrinkle of Dean's shirt. Its big brother – for who could it be, other than Sam – curled it carefully in his arms, futilely sharing body heat. Futilely, because infant Sam was completely still, not a single breath stirring his chest. Even as Bobby reached trembling hands to check for a pulse, Dean's breath stuttered and slowed.

"No, no, no, no, NO!" Bobby didn't know he could reach that note. "Philomena, fix them! Don't you take them away from me!" He scooped up Dean and pulled both boys up against his chest, as if him holding onto them meant they'd hold onto life. Bobby turned toward the light that was almost blinding now, to watch it fade and reveal Philomena – now faint and flickering – standing over the body of a blonde woman in a powder blue pants suit. No, not body. The woman on the floor was breathing. Her purse was even next to her; she looked like she'd been working in an office and had decided to lie on the floor and take a nap.

"She did not let go like the others," said Philomena, still studying the other woman. "She wanted to come back to her mother, and I used everything I had to let her." She looked at own, translucent hands with apparent fascination. "I am…so weak now."

"No, Philomena!" Bobby lightly shook the boys' bodies in her direction. Hot tears flowed into his beard. "You don't get to use up your power to save someone else and let these two, who came here to help, die! Please. Please." He bowed his head, a hole in his soul like he hadn't felt since Karen's death.

Philomena turned to him. "I…will see…" Her bear walked through the wall to sit at her side, and she leaned on it as if it could lend her strength. "Because you were kind to me, Bobby Singer. And Sam was, even when he was scared. And…Dean might have been." The skepticism on her face at the last assertion might have been funny in another situation, but Bobby was feeling anything but amusement right now.

Philomena floated over to the three huddled together on the hard floor. "When I cast the spell, I spoke a Truth with it. I said the spell would last until a father who was not a father came. I thought that was impossible, but you are like a father to them, are you not?" Her words barely penetrated as Bobby stared down at what he held. Not who, because Dean was no longer breathing either. The boys trembled in his arms in a parody of life, but Bobby knew it was his own shaking that moved them. He didn't even look up when Philomena laid a palm against Dean's shoulder with her fingers on Sam's tiny body.

"I will try for you," said Philomena once more.

To Bobby's eyes, nothing happened except Philomena blinked like a poorly tuned TV station and disappeared.

Then Sam and Dean each took a breath.

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AN (again): Philomena's statement "Father who is not a father" was somewhat inspired by MacBeth, when the witch tells the titular character: "MacBeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him." MacBeth takes that to mean he will never be defeated, because, like Philomena's statement, it sounds impossible. However, in MacBeth, the enemies' forces used branches cut from the wood as camouflage, allergorically making the wood come to the hill. In a similar way, Bobby, a man who never became a father physically but has acted as one, showed up to help our favorite boys. Does that make sense to anyone except me?

Stormy: For you to say that chapter 9 is "beautifully tragic" is such a nice thing to say! I struggled to express the brothers' codependency and really feel like I failed to do it justice. It's lovely for you to say that I did what I wanted to, at least partly. For chapter 10, I probably make Bobby to much of a deux ex machina, but I do love him so much! I see him as a mentor and friend and father figure too, though that was really mostly true after John died. BTW, I adjusted something major in the next chapter specifically for you!

printandpolish: I feel sorry for Philomena too! Your observation that in another situation, she and Sam might be friends, is so insightful; I didn't think about it until you said it. A young orphan with a power that they didn't ask for and that makes others fear them – and even try to kill them? Sounds familiar!

Scealai: *waves unpaid bills in solidarity* Bobby is the best, isn't he? I heart him so much.

Timelady66: I grinned like an idiot while writing chapter 9 because of my mental pictures of the mini-Winchesters. *squee* Irresistible, indeed. And thank you for saying you'd like the story to be (even) longer. What a lovely compliment!

Sylvia37: You're not wrong. *hangs head in shame*

muffinroo: Another smartie! Look at you figuring out the play! I like to tell people I'm a random font of useless information, so I'm right there with you. I am so glad that you love the story. I adore Bobby too. In a later chapter, I force him to admit (to himself) again how much he loves the boys. And thanks for saying I write the weechesters well. I just love them so much.

Shazza19: Bobby to the rescue! Woohoo!