AN: So, every time I go to write more, angst and schmoop come pouring out. It's a problem.

Who has brotherly love on their bingo card? How about awesome Bobby? If you do, you're in luck. And, hey, since you've been good, I threw in some Dean-in-a-towel.

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This whole situation sucked big, hairy donkey balls. Dean hated being so weak and helpless, even though Bobby was matter of fact about helping. It was an imprecation to the independent hunter to need to relinquish watch. It didn't help that worry was eating a hole through his stomach every time he looked at his deathly still little brother. Sure, the kid was back to his giant self, but the most movement he'd made so far was to frown occasionally.

If Bobby hadn't been there, Dean would have talked to Sam, cajoled and encouraged and pestered him until he opened his eyes out of sheer self-defense. Dean well knew that a familiar, trusted voice could be invaluable in leading you back to reality in the wake of a bad injury or other confusion.

Speaking of…Dean also hated the confusion and lost time he was contending with. He remembered with all too much clarity growing weak from blood loss and being afraid that if he died, he'd leave the fuzzy-haired, cooing infant next to him alone and defenseless. He remembered the world growing soft around the edges and losing the ability to stand. He remembered staring at baby Sammy who stared back at him in apparent fascination. Sammy had gone from burbling and laughing to lying more and more still until the brothers were lying nearly nose to nose in a silent staring contest, seeking to memorize each other. Then those bright eyes had dulled.

Dean remembered the fear floating away, even though he was growing cold and could feel his own heart straining to keep pumping far too little blood. With his last strength, he'd pulled the poor, tiny, empty body to his chest and closed his eyes.

And then what? Darkness, remembered fear and loss, bewilderment, Dad? The helplessness and confusion and not knowing bothered Dean on a visceral level. But not as much as the memory of watching Sam's eyes go blank. He wondered just what lengths he'd be willing to go to to never have to see that again.

Unable to help himself, Dean reached over and felt for the pulse in Sam's neck. It was steady and strong, just like every other time he'd checked. Bobby noted the movement but didn't react, for which Dean was grateful. Dean was so damn grateful to the man, and to whatever it was that had returned Sam to himself from that…seed of a person he'd been.

But he still hated the whole thing. How had he gone from little, emotional, scared, dying to here? Freaking magic. It hadn't been pretty – that was clear from Bobby's expression and by what the man hadn't said.

"Hospital says Sarah Dwyer's gonna be fine," Bobby reported tiredly. He had his own brand of magic when it came to getting information. "Her ma's with her."

"Good. That's good." And it was. Dean even allowed himself a small smile at that. There were plenty of other families who still had their losses, but saving even one was good for the soul. And knowing there wouldn't be any more. Now, if only… His gaze drifted unerringly back to his stupid, silent brother. Was Sam's big brain trying to make sense of being a baby, of dying, of being grown again? Or maybe not all of him was back and he'd never –

"Drink this, Dean." Bobby pushed something warm into Dean's hands, and he jumped. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard Bobby moving around or the microwave beep. He felt a blush paint his cheeks, but Bobby just lightly cuffed his head.

Dean obediently drank the soup and complained that he wanted a burger because it was expected. The soup seemed to warm him and curb some of the weakness and nausea that still plagued him. "Feel like a freaking invalid," he groused. Thanks, Bobby.

"That's cuz you are, dummy." You're welcome. "Think you could handle a shower? And be honest, cuz you could use one, but I ain't carrying your naked ass back to bed if you fall."

Dean was horrified by that mental picture. "Hell, yes, I can take a shower. But…" And sue him, he looked at Sam again.

Bobby just waited. Sam was fine, and he wouldn't be alone. Bobby was one of two men Dean trusted to watch over him, though nobody was a completely adequate substitute for himself. "Fine," Dean huffed finally. And he might have been as slow and creaky as the crypt keeper, but he was pleased that the weakness was slowly fading and he thought he just might be able to make it through a whole shower.

Soon, Dean was showered and resting shakily on the closed toilet wearing only a towel and mentally preparing himself for the ordeal of getting dressed. Naturally, that was when Sam decided to jerk awake so violently that he fell off the bed. And just as naturally, he landed on his broken wrist, and proceeded to puke up the little that was in his stomach after about two days without eating.

Dean rushed to him as fast as he could, and Bobby still had Sam back on the bed and comfortably arranged by the time Dean made it. He knelt on the side of the bed, turning Sam's face toward him. "Sammy? You okay? What happened? Are you hurt?" He knew it was too much, too fast, but the elation of seeing those eyes open was still bouncing around in his chest and it kept colliding with the fear that somehow not all of Sam had come back.

Sam's eyebrows drew together and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Dude. Clothes!" There was pain on his face and the words were soft, weak, but remarkably clear.

Dean remembered his state of undress and began to laugh. He laughed and laughed because those two words, and that tone, and that face all told him everything he'd wondered. Sam was back, full grown and prissy as always. When Sam and Bobby gave him identical raised eyebrow looks that said they feared for his sanity, Dean just laughed harder, heedless of how much it hurt. Dean laughed until he was lying curled on his side on the bed, arms weakly cradling his aching stomach.

Then Bobby, bless him, did everything that the Winchesters would have normally done for each other. He dumped Dean's clothes on the bed next to him and turned away as Dean struggled into them. In the meanwhile, Bobby wiped Sam's mouth (which made the kid color), helped him sip some water, and held the trashcan for him to spit it out. He coaxed some tea liberally laced with whiskey and honey and probably crushed up pain meds into Sam. He waved off Sam's embarrassment when the latter couldn't hold the cup on his own. Bobby re-wrapped Sam's arm and propped it on a pillow with an ice pack.

Then he came back to Dean, who was melting like a popsicle in July and wishing he could use Jedi powers to get his socks on. Bobby pulled the cursed socks onto Dean's feet, bullied him into drinking more orange juice and taking some pain meds of his own, then made him lie down. He checked the wound, which Dean had uncovered to shower, smeared it with antibiotic ointment, and re-covered it, during which Sam proved to be extremely bossy for someone who couldn't lift his own head. It was all tiring and painful and embarrassing and so damn reassuring.

Bobby even cleaned up the puke. By the time he came out of the bathroom, washing his hands, Sam was giving the older man a dopey, glassy-eyed look that he normally reserved for people who saved his life or brought him coffee. It was one part emo little brother, one part pain meds, and one part unadulterated gratitude. And Dean had the terrible feeling a similar look was on his own face, especially when Bobby looked over at them and snickered.

"You two look like kids that got into the moonshine."

"Bobby…" Dean started.

"Shuddup," said Bobby affably. "Now, some of us have been actually working around here and need some sleep. You two princesses gonna be okay for a while?"

"We're fine, Bobby," answered Dean, feeling warm and comfortable.

"Old people get crabby when they miss their naps," Sam whispered, theatrically loudly, as Bobby twitched the curtains closed and turned off the overhead light.

Now Dean snickered, pleased to have another reminder that Sam was back and was himself again. Dean was also pleased when the pain that the action caused was distant and muted. "Hey, Bobby, you don't sleep naked, do you?" he called.

"Of course not, numbnuts," Bobby called back, toeing off his boots. "I keep my ballcap on." Now he was the one who chuckled, pleased when both brothers groaned at that mental image. "Now shuddup. And whine if you need something." Thankfully not removing anything else, he stretched out on the other bed, pulled his cap over his eyes, and almost immediately began to snore.

"Bobby's awesome," whispered Sam, and Dean couldn't disagree.

By all rights, the wounded but comfortably drugged brothers should have fallen asleep almost as fast as Bobby had. But Dean found himself fighting it, and sensed Sam doing the same. It seemed neither was quite ready to let go of the moment yet.

They whispered back and forth about inconsequential things for a few minutes, reminiscent of a thousand nights when they were children…the first time around. Like a thousand other whispered thoughts in a thousand motel rooms, taking a quiet moment to just be brothers.

Then, as it often did, the conversation turned serious. "What do you remember?" Dean couldn't help but ask the question that had been pecking at the inside of his skull.

Sam was quiet long enough that Dean rolled onto his side, wishing he could see his face. Finally, the younger brother spoke. "It was…strange. Like watching myself sort of slip away. A lot of it is just, um, impressions. Like, my adult brain doesn't know how to interpret what I remember." Sam trailed off, but it was a thoughtful silence, so Dean waited. "But, you know, even when I was…not really me, I didn't feel lonesome or afraid." In the sliver of light from the window, Dean could see the curve of Sam's cheek and knew that he was smiling. "I felt safe."

Sam reached up a hand – the wrapped one, the moron – and patted the side of Dean's neck twice before settling back. A memory from their time in Philomena's house slapped Dean with the subtlety of two by four across the face.

Sammy was too little walk any more, so Dean had laid him down carefully on top of his jacket, now big enough to be a blanket for both of them. He was entertaining the baby and distracting himself by using the edge of the jacket to play peek-a-boo. Every time he appeared, Sammy would squeal with pure joy, laughing and bicycling his legs or grabbing his toes. Dean was sad that he no longer yelled, "DE!" every time, but his brother's delight was still chasing away the shadow of fear that was stalking Dean. Then one time Dean popped up, Sam didn't laugh or wiggle; he just stared at Dean with liquid, too-old eyes. Then, deliberately, he reached over and patted the side of Dean's face twice. The message was as clear as if Sam could still speak it: "I know you're here. I see you."

Well, if that didn't bring up a million things Dean would never say. So instead, Dean rolled onto his back again and said, "Well, sucks to be you, because you don't remember the best part."

Sam must have sensed him floundering, because he immediately threw him a line. "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

Smiling in the dark, and remembering that little Sammy never got his requested "tory," Dean spun a completely fanciful tale of a dragon and a magical sword and a swashbuckling big brother who saved the day and got a kiss from a beautiful princess who was wearing nothing but a bikini. He was buoyed by Sam's quiet huffs of laughter at all the best parts. He didn't stop talking even after the chuckles had subsided to nothing but the gentle, even breaths of sleep.

And he didn't notice when he followed his brother into slumber.

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AN: Did you get the schmoop all over your clothes? Sorry about that, but it will wash out in the laundry. Probably.

Jenjoremy: Absolutely correct! Such a great play, though it always makes me cry. Sorry for the self deprecation. I never feel I do justice to the boys' bond. More Bobby to the rescue here, because I love that.

muffinroo: Bro love, as requested! I considered having John stay long enough to talk to the boys, but I really think he wouldn't have in season 1. Too bad he didn't realize that they're stronger together.

Lena: I'm glad you didn't have to have a conniption! LOL I'm sad that I don't get to read your comment on chapter 9, especially with your little tease that it was a good one! I love that you caught the plural after the fact AND the "I know you will." You're a perceptive reader. I remembered the car, I promise, and there are hints that Dean's not just over watching Sam essentially die. I know you love the schmoop as much as I do and hope you enjoyed it here!

Shazza19: I am still very jealous. We average about 80" of snow per year. Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think about the speed of the boys' recovery after the next chapter or two.