AN: As much as is humanly possible, I try to keep my own beliefs out of my writing, or at least not use my writing as a platform for proselytizing. With that said, in this chapter, Bobby is unapologetically a spokesman for a topic that is extraordinarily close to my heart – the destigmatization of mental illness and its treatment. (Is destigmatization a word? Don't know. I'm using it anyway.) In any case, I hope this doesn't come off as preachy. If it does, rest assured that we'll return to our regularly scheduled schmoop in the next chapter. Thanks for your indulgence!

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This was getting old. Sam was getting awfully tired of having to scratch and claw his way up out of the dark just to wake up. And to go through the laborious process of remembering where he was and what was making his head spin like a Tilt-a-Whirl. And, oh yes, being reminded of just how much everything hurt once he did manage to get his eyes open.

Grumpy and wishing the pain would let up enough so he could go back to sleep and avoid Dean a little longer – while conversely wanting Dean with all his might – Sam went to roll onto his side. "Ah, shit!" He hadn't realized just what a colossally horrible idea that was.

Familiar hands caught Sam's shoulders, and an equally familiar voice said gently, "whoa! Careful there, Sam. Don't pull those stitches out."

It wasn't the hands or voice that Sam had expected, and in addition to a head full of cotton and an everything full of pain, he now had a lump the size of Texas in his throat. He wanted Dean. But the voice was still talking to him and it wanted an answer, so he swallowed it all down somehow. "Bobby?"

"That's right, boy. Don't roll again, okay?"

Sam blinked gummy eyelids and could just make out the face attached to the hands and voice. "Can I -- ?" he had to break off to cough and Bobby held a straw to his mouth. Sam sipped cautiously until he discovered it was orange Gatorade, then he drank enough that Bobby eventually pulled it away. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Shuddup. Hey, where you going?"

"I just want to sit up." Sam was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic from being so trapped in the bed. Besides, from a sitting position he could see if anyone else was in the room.

Bobby pondered a minute, then flicked on the light next to him and studied Sam's face in the muted light. It wasn't until then that Sam realized that it was dark outside. He'd lost a lot of time.

"That's not a bad idea," Bobby finally admitted, apparently approving of what he could see. "You should sit on the edge of the bed for a while and try to take some deep breaths. Your ribs ain't gonna like it but you don't wanna get pneumonia from only taking shallow breaths for too long." He helped Sam sit, then pivot to perch on the edge of the bed, only removing his support when Sam's breathing regulated again.

"This sucks," Sam finally grumbled, then was immediately embarrassed for whining. He was more embarrassed when Bobby just raised his eyebrows, a gentle, silent reminder of who was responsible for his predicament. Sam dropped his eyes. "Why…uh…are you here?"

Bobby chewed on the silence so long Sam couldn't help but peek up through his hair. Bobby scratched his head under his cap. "Don't look at me like that," he said, but there was no heat in the words. "You look like you're 10 years old and about to apologize for letting the dog off his leash or eating all the Oreos. Again." He leaned back in his chair and Sam squashed the need to protest he was 16 now and not a little kid any more. He hadn't exactly acted grown up and trustworthy lately. "I figured out you weren't huntin' okamis," Bobby said when Sam didn't jump in. "But I get the feeling you knew that. So when I couldn't reach any of you, I high-tailed it out here."

"I'm sorry." Sam was miserable, his voice barely above a whisper, and it wasn't because of how his ribs screamed with every deep breath. Bobby knew too. And he'd driven across a state and a half just to save their bacon, all because of Sam's actions. "I – you didn't have to do that. I wouldn't have let Dad and Dean get hurt." He glanced around the room, confirming again that they were alone.

"It wasn't just them I was worried about, idjit. And of course I'd come." He shook his head, and Sam tried to sort through what was on his face. Bobby could be hard to read, but Sam was usually pretty good at figuring out generally what was going through his head. He looked…surprised that Sam would think he wouldn't come or would be annoyed at him. He also looked disturbingly thoughtful. The older hunter was very good at chiseling through emotional walls, not that Sam had many of those walls left at the moment.

"They ain't here. I got a double room cuz I figured they wouldn't sleep otherwise." Bobby changed tacks, obviously having caught Sam's look around the room.

"They ready to dump me and go back to hunting without me?" Sam had to force the words out, unable to even pretend nonchalance.

"How hard did you hit that head?" Bobby grumbled, handing Sam the half empty Gatorade bottle. "None of us would leave you, dumbass. Now drink that. Then you're gonna eat something. Not only are you growing like a dandelion, your body's gotta fix all the damage that bloody tarasque did."

"It's dead?" Sam confirmed, not surprised but mostly just deflecting.

"Yeah. Some overly brave moron without a lick of self-preservation stabbed it through the heart, but yer Daddy and brother cut off its head just to be sure. Seems they were kinda angry that it tried to turn you into Sam paste. But I'm the one who got to burn the sucker." He rubbed his hands together, looking pleased. It seemed he also had a grudge against the monster that had nearly taken Sam's life. The "us" Bobby had dropped earlier came to Sam's mind. He sipped at the Gatorade carefully, finding himself hungry and slightly nauseated at the same time.

"How's the pain?" Bobby wanted to know, again studying Sam's face. "If you get somethin' in your stomach, you can have some of the good Tylenol.

To Sam's horror, his eyes filled with tears. "I don't want pain meds. I deserve to hurt." He felt like his insides were being scoured out, the sadness and embarrassment drowning out all of the physical pain he was feeling. He dropped his face into his hands, shaking with the intensity of his emotions.

Bobby knelt in front of Sam, put a hand on his shoulder, and simply waited, an anchor in the storm. Not the anchor Sam wanted most, but still one he could rely on. When he finally looked up and looked at Bobby's face, he was surprised and relieved and grateful to see only patience and compassion there.

"Let's get you sitting against the headboard a sec," Bobby said, and helped him to do just that, even throwing the covers over Sam's lap before handing him another bottle of Gatorade. "Now drink that and listen to me, kiddo." Sam blinked wet lashes but took another drink and listened. "You don't deserve to hurt. Not physically and not anything else either. Nobody deserves to feel like they're better off dead, much less a good young man like you."

Sam tried to interrupt, but Bobby held up a hand. "Drink and listen. You don't. And feeling that way doesn't make you weak or embarrassing or any of that shit. You hear me?" He scowled and repeated himself. "You hear me, Sam?"

"Yeah." Sam could hear how wimpy and pathetic his own voice was. "But, Bobby, Dad…and Dean…you...would never be weak like this – "

Sam was shocked by the reaction that got. Bobby reared back from bending to pull the blanket farther up. His eyes had narrowed and he'd pinched his lips tightly shut. Sam wasn't sure he had ever seen his surrogate uncle look angrier, and that included the time a Wendigo had tried to skin Dean and the almost-devolving-into-violence arguments he'd had with Dad. Sam blinked, thinking for a split second that he'd forever ruined his relationship with one of the handful of people on the entire planet who genuinely loved him.

But then Bobby sighed heavily and his expression turned sad, thoughtful, and rueful all at once. "I'm gonna tell you a story, son, and you're gonna listen to every word. Pay attention, cuz I'll repeat it as many times as I have to, and you're kinda a captive audience here." There was just a hint of humor in his eyes as he perched on the edge of the chair that was next to the bed, but Sam could still tell that Bobby meant every word.

"I used to hunt sometimes with a crazy old coot called Buck. Yes, really. Don't interrupt." Bobby had obviously caught on that Sam had been about to make an interjection. "Grew up totally off the grid. Probably was weaned on moonshine. Good hunter, but more than a little nuts. Never saw anyone who hated the supernatural more'n Buck. Well, not until I met your dad probably. Anyway, Buck started to get sickly, droppin' weight, lookin' like the walkin' dead, and it slowed him down enough that somethin' mean got close enough to take a chunk outta his hide. He ended up in the hospital – which he woulda refused if he was conscious. And while he was there, they told him he had diabetes. Drink that."

Sam had gotten caught up in the saga of Buck and had forgotten that he was supposed to be drinking his Gatorade. He took a healthy swig. "That's why he'd been looking and feeling sick?" he asked to keep the story on track.

"Yup. On'y Buck didn't wanna hear it. To him, diabetes was just somethin' doctors made up to get money. He refused medicine, even though all he needed was some pills and to fix his diet, not even shots or nothin'. He told me he could pretty much decide to get better and he would, and it would make him weak if he gave in and took the pills. 'Mind over matter, Bob,' he told me over and over again, right up until the day he died, not even two years later."

"That's stupid!" Sam clenched a fist when even that little outburst hurt his head.

"Calm down. You're right. Buck's body needed a little help to make somethin' he needed. It was a physiological problem and he didn't do nothin' to cause it. Nothin' to be ashamed of if he needed pills or shots or monitoring to take care of it, and it could've saved his life. No different than treating a broken leg or anythin' else." Bobby leaned forward and rested his hands on the edge of Sam's bed. "Anything else. You understanding me, Sam?"

Well, now Sam felt like he was weightless. He hadn't realized just how scared he'd been by the possibility that Bobby would turn his back on him. "Yes, sir," he responded, even with a tremulous smile.

"Don't you 'sir' me," groused Bobby easily, a familiar complaint. "Just remember, you can come stay with me if what's best is therapy or if you need a home base to get a prescription or if all you need is someone who'll listen when you're sick of talking to that annoyin' brother of yours. You're on my insurance anyway."

"Why am I on your insurance?" Sam blew right past the rest of that statement, lacking the strength to unpack it all right now.

"Cuz in the eyes of the law, I'm you're uncle." And damn if Bobby didn't look proud of that. "With apologies to your late grandpappy, apparently someone presented proof that he got it on with my mom and slipped one past the goalie." Sam scrunched up his face in disgust, which only made Bobby grin. "So, I'm legally your uncle, and with the insurance plan I have, I can have you and Dean on it, which I did."

"Why?" Sam started to ask, but stopped himself when he thought about what a stupid question that was. This was a man who'd drive across the country for them just in case they needed him. "When did you have time for that?" he asked instead.

"Ten years ago."

Sam felt his jaw drop open. "Wh-what?"

Bobby smiled more gently than most people would have thought him capable of. "I set it all up ten years ago, Sam. Bout that time, your dad was just gettin' gas one day and a wechuge in its human form took a potshot at him. It's pure luck that the thing was a rotten shot and that there was an off-duty policeman at the next pump that shot it before it could try again. Well, it occurred to me that if somethin' happened to him, you and Dean would be up shit crick, stuck in the system. So I set it up so's you could live with me if the worst ever happened."

"How'd you manage that?" Sam was surprised and impressed and incredibly moved all at once.

"I got an idjit who owes me to take care of fudgin' the DNA results. The paperwork was easy after that. And anybody who coulda disputed it was long gone."

For the first time, Sam truly understood that the Winchester family went beyond their circle of three. Bobby had chosen to be part of their unique brand of disfunction, just like he'd chosen to drive out to help them, even though his reward was staying up all night burning a five-ton monster and sleeping alone in a roach-infested motel. Just like he'd chosen to sit with Sam so the others could get some rest. Just like he would have been willing to take in 2 orphaned boys. Maybe Sam shouldn't be so surprised that Bobby had also chosen to accept him even after he'd wanted to take his own life.

"Bobby…" was all he could say before all of that tightened in his chest.

"I know, kid," said Bobby. "Now, eat somethin' before you fall asleep again." A package hit Sam's lap, and he couldn't help but grin to see his favorite – Oreo's. "What? You need the sugar."

Sam had made it through a whole sleeve of Oreo's (good-naturedly complaining that they should be paired with milk or water or pretty much anything but orange Gatorade) before he ran out of steam. Bobby helped him to the bathroom over his protests that he could make it, but at least gave him privacy to use the facilities, brush his teeth, and clean up as much as he could with a washcloth. He'd have loved a shower, but even if he'd been up for it, it wasn't a good idea with his chest "Frankensteined" as Bobby said. By the time he was done, Sam was hurting too much to protest more about taking pain meds and some antibiotics that Bobby magically produced. And to his disgust, his body was more than ready for sleep.

"Bobby?" he called sleepily as the older man puttered around the room.

Bobby came to the bedside immediately. "What's wrong?"

Please tell me that Dean will understand, he wanted to say. Please tell me that Dad's right and I really will be okay, he wanted to say. I love you and I'm so grateful that you aren't disgusted by me, he wanted to say. But all that came out was, "thanks."

And Bobby smiled a real, full Bobby smile, the kind that was pretty rare and made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're welcome. Now close your eyes and your mouth. Don't you know it's the middle of the night?"