Prompt: How about Bobby taking care of both of them because they were idjits and decided to hunt in bad weather?

Me: Why, that'd be lovely. Thank you.

Bobby's pacing the floor, checking the clock every fucking second because those two morons aren't here, yet. Sighing, he tosses his baseball cap on the table and pours another drink.

Don't hunt the dog this weekend, he told them. Weather's turning to shit, he told them. Mudslides are rampant in that park this time of year, he told them.

Did they listen?

Duh.

Now he's sweating and worrying like a first time mother, having lost contact with his boys hours ago.

Last he knew, the dog got taken out, but both brothers were caught in one of those forewarned mudslides. Bobby's assuming their phones got lost or broken or something.

Goddammit, where are they?

It's another hour before the Impala pulls up. By now, Bobby's had enough booze to seriously go off on them, regardless of their condition. He flings open the front door, snarl in place, ready to jump the second he sees them.

The plan, familiar to all parents when simultaneously angry and worried, fizzles away as soon as the car doors open, and the two idjits stumble into the yard.

Bobby gives them a minute, watching undetected, so he can accurately determine their needs before the bullshitting begins. Dean was driving, which is a good sign, but he's limping badly, which is also a sign that while hurt, Sam must be worse. Dean pauses on his way around the trunk, sneezing tightly against his wrist.

Bobby sighs, mentally calculating how much Kleenex he has in relation to how bad Dean sounds.

He's gonna have to go to the store.

Dean's covered in mud. Hair plastered to his head, clothes sagging from the weight, squishing-in-his-boots, covered in mud.

More awesome.

Sam makes it out of the car, also mud-covered, but he's clutching his arm to his chest and is in no way steady. He looks a little lost, indicating a possible concussion, and the cough rumbling from deep within his chest sounds like it's begging for antibiotics.

Well. All this from a simple hunt that could've gone without a hitch, if they just listened.

But since when did a Winchester just listen?

Exactly.

Bobby strolls outside, trying not to look like he's been freaking out for the better part of the evening. "Wanna hand?"

Dean looks up, both sheepish and relieved. "Yeah, Sam...hit his head…" He breaks off, breath hitching and sneezing again into the crook of his arm. "Maybe fractured his arm. Couldn't tell in the rain."

Bobby nods. Of course not. Rain's an asshole like that. "And you?" He juts his chin at Dean, while wrapping an arm around Sam, who's looking at him like he can't quite place him. "Come on, Sam," he mumbles, giving Dean a pointed look. Well? He's also trying not to be irritated by the mud that's now clinging to his clothing.

Dean waves him off, limping (squelching with every step) to Sam's other side to help. "I'm fi...hetsch'yuu! fine. Sam's the one to worry about."

Bobby rolls his eyes. Of course he is. "Sure. Let's get you both inside."

They get up the stairs, Sam still staring. "Bobby?"

"Well, look who gets five points. Come on - sit down and lemme see that arm."

Sam dutifully sits, coughing once again, and wincing as his arm gets jostled. "Dean needs help. I think he...hurt his leg?"

Dean sat heavily beside him, wiping his face and shaking his head, smearing mud everywhere. "Don't worry about me, Sammy. Let Bobby patch you up." Dean looks up at Bobby. "Not sure on a concussion. He's been waking for me the whole ride here, though, so…" He shrugs, and leans back, sighing, trying to control his shivering.

Bobby nods, gently removing Sam's jacket, knowing that Dean's in more discomfort than he's saying (duh) because he's letting Bobby do this exam on his own. "Dean, why don't you go wash that mud off?"

Dean shakes his head. "I wanna see if - "

"Lemme try that again. Dean, why don't you go wash that mud off before you get it all over my house and spend the next two days cleaning it all up?" He offers a sweet smile, which, in no way, gives room for negotiating.

Dean blinks, looking down at himself as if for the first time. "Oh. Right. Okay. Just…jus…" He would've finished that thought if he wasn't about to sneeze again, but he is, and he does, and the only reason Bobby doesn't physically push him is Dean's bad leg. "I'll, uh…"

"Yeah, yeah, you'll be right back, you're a phone call away, let you know if I need you. Just go get cleaned up, Dean."

Dean limps away, seemingly oblivious to Bobby's sass, dragging a duffel bag up the stairs.

Bobby figures that if the leg was that bad, he wouldn't be going upstairs when there's a bathroom right around the corner. The cold Dean seems to have caught is probably the more pressing issue.

Sam hisses as Bobby touches a sore spot in his shoulder. "Right there?" Sam bites his lip, nodding, then winces as the head movement disagrees with him. "At the very least, you pulled a muscle pretty good. Maybe tore something. You'll have to get this mud off you so I can see better."

Sam's nodding again, lips pressed together as that awful cough bubbles in his chest.

Unable to resist any longer, Bobby asks, "What the hell happened?"

Sam smears his hair to one side. "Dog was huge. Dean shot it. The ground moved. We fell." He looks up at Bobby. "I hit my head."

Well, that's the kind of story you get when you ask the potentially concussed. "Okee dokee, then. Where'd that cough come from? You weren't sick when you left here."

Sam's face scrunches up. "Yeah, I was."

Bobby stares at him. "You were already sick when you left for this hunt?"

Sam's eyes do that thing, where they make you feel like an asshole for asking a question. "Dean needed to hunt. He's been so…" He trailed off, making lame gestures with his hands, as if that was the best way to end the sentence.

Ever since John died, Dean's need to keep moving became Sam's need to keep moving, regardless of whether that motion was a good idea. Bobby sighs. "You two are gonna kill me, I swear. Okay...as soon as Dean's clean and dry, it'll be your turn. Meanwhile, let me check your head and make sure you aren't gonna roll your eyes back and pass out on my floor."

Sam nods seriously, wiping his nose with his sleeve, which really, what was the point of that? He's covered in mud.

Bobby snags a kitchen towel off the counter and starts mopping up Sam's face, uncovering a cut above one eye and a bruised cheek in the process. He checks Sam's head, gets as much mud off as he can, and by the time Sam starts shivering, Dean returns with wet hair, a t-shirt and shorts.

Seriously?

His teeth are chattering, and blood is dribbling down his thigh and calf, but he makes a beeline for Sam as if he was perfectly fine.

"Hold it!" Bobby barks, stopping Dean in his tracks. "Sit your ass down, before you fall over." Dean's mouth opens to protest but Bobby cuts him off with a wave. "Sam's fine. Head's got a good sized bump, arm's probably a pulled muscle, not a fracture. Can't see much until the mud's off him. I'm more worried about this cough he's sharing. So, let him get cleaned up while I look you over."

"Bobby, I - "

"Boy, I didn't ask."

Dean swallows, sharing a look with Sam who's not-so-subtly trying to tell him to just do as he's told. Mumbling a, "Yessir…" he sits at the table, anxiously watching Sam weave his way to the first floor bathroom.

Because there's a first floor bathroom.

Bobby sighs, going to the living room to get a blanket and to make sure Sam got to the bathroom in one piece. Happy that Sam found his destination, Bobby settles the blanket around Dean's shoulders, pointing at his head. "You're dripping all over your shirt. You were supposed to come out clean and dry."

Muffling a sneeze into the blanket, Dean sighs back, pulling the warm cover tight and shifting in his seat. "I know. I just...I was worried."

Bobby nods, grunting a bit as he crouches down to examine the now visible gash on Dean's leg. "Well, this is a beaut. You get it in the mudslide?"

"Yeah," Dean grits his teeth as Bobby pokes and prods the muscles around the cut. "Must've snagged it on something on the way down."

Bobby pulls himself up. "Needs a couple stitches. I'll be right back. Don't. Move." He gives Dean his most stern look, which ends up totally wasted, because Dean's ducked his head back into the blanket, sneezing. "And while I'm up, I'll get you some cold medicine."

Dean's eyes widen. "No - can't be drugged up. What if Sam - "

"Sam's gonna be drugged up, too, soon enough. You went hunting when you weren't at your best, and that's the number one way to get yourself killed." Dean swallows hard, but says nothing. Bobby softens his tone now that he has Dean's attention. "Let me take care of you."

Dean swallows again, nodding, twisting the blanket in his fist.

"Alright, then."

xxxxx

Within an hour, Dean's stitched up, warmed up, and absolutely stuffed up. Sam's got muscle patches on his shoulder, butterfly bandages on his eyebrow, an ice pack on his head, and a hot water bottle pressed against his chest.

Both boys are situated in their bedroom, a humidifier humming in a corner, and Bobby humming in the doorway.

"Right. Now here's the next phase of this plan. I'm gonna go to the store. You're gonna get some sleep. You're not leaving here for at least a few days, so use this time to reflect on why that is, so we can have a nice chat when I return."

They scoot further under the blankets in a poor attempt at hiding from the blatant scolding. Bobby just shakes his head and closes the door.

"Stupid, stubborn, pains in my ass. Both of 'em. I swear to God, every time they come here, they're worse than when they last left." Bobby passes the time it takes to get into his car by muttering to himself, feeling better at the release of all his pent up worry.

He pulls into the parking lot of the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart. He hates being around so many people, but he knows it's the only place open with everything he'll need.

It's a clean trip through the store...cathartic, actually. Bobby's been taking care of these two for years, and even though there was a patch of time when he didn't see them regularly, helping Sam and Dean was like salting and burning a body. He pauses by the Kleenex as he realizes his references are all fucked up.

The cart's getting loaded with first aid supplies, cold medicines, and food. Sam's tea, Dean's coffee, those popsicles Sam likes for his throat, the cherry flavored anything Dean has to swallow, super strong tissues because the cheap ones aren't enough...the list went on and on, the cart continued to fill, and Bobby felt better by the time he finished.

Of course, he could've had it all ready if he'd only known what was going on.

Grumbling in his head once more, Bobby paid for everything, loaded the car, and headed home.

xxxxx

Even though he left strict instructions, Bobby's relieved to find the Impala still parked in the yard. He remembers a time when John would sneak off, tail between his legs, afraid to confront his own demons as he just tried to do the best he could. Despite everything, Bobby misses John. And if Bobby misses him, the boys must be...yeah.

It takes a few trips, but he gets everything unloaded and into the kitchen. As soon as he finishes, Dean shuffles in, bundled up and yawning. "Hey...deed a hand?"

Bobby blinks at him. "Jesus, you're congested."

Dean nods miserably. "Yeah, it hit whed you left." He tried to sniffle, but it ended up a snorty-strangled sound.

Bobby chuckles a little, digging through a bag and handing over some tissues. "Here. Use these. I'll get your medicine out."

Dean thunks his ass into a chair, massaging his temples with one hand while opening the box with the other. "Thangks…"

Bobby waves him off, still digging for the right box. "None needed. I'd just like to know what you were thinking going off on a hunt, sick, with a sick partner. Where the hell - oh, here it is." He pulls out the box of liquid medicine, waggling it at Dean. "Got the liquid in case your throat was too sore to swallow the pills."

Dean blows his nose, then swallows. "Dot sore...yet."

"Yup. It's the yet I'm worried about. Got pills, too. Which do you want now?"

Dean sniffs, tossing the used Kleenex in the plastic bag Bobby holds out for him. "Uh...liquid."

That's what I thought, Bobby sings to himself in a super smug tone. "Liquid it is." He cracks through the plastic, shooting Dean a look as he pours the red stuff into the measuring cup. "Well?"

Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. He takes the cup, chucks it down, then sneezes messily into more Kleenex. "I duddo. Thought we could do it. It killed three people. Didd't wadt bore people dead because I was sick." By the end of the excuse, the stupidity of it was apparent to anyone listening, including Dean. He folds his arms on the table, resting his head on them. "It was a bad idea."

Bobby snorts. He says nothing while he continues to put the supplies away, letting Dean stew for a bit. He knows there isn't much he has to say - Dean already knew the truth. When he finishes, he holds up a thermometer. "So. Which end?"

Dean swivels his head towards him. Seriously?

Bobby grins. "I'm kidding. In the ear we go. C'mere." The little beep goes off a few seconds later. "Well, now. If this were a class, you'd have an A-plus."

Dean peeks at the reading. "Extra credit, too."

"Yup."

Bobby stands there, figuring, what the hell. Placing a hand on Dean's head, he tames the bed head, offering a moment of physical comfort to a man who rarely gets it, yet needs it more than anyone Bobby knows. Dean sighs, closes his eyes, and rests his head on his arms once more.

Bobby knows that the fever's letting him get away with more than usual...that the fever's encouraging him to give more than usual. It's just that those damn red cheeks and droopy eyes make Bobby's heart ache, and if Dean asked for the moon right then, Bobby'd find the spell to deliver it on a plate.

After one last scalp rub, Bobby gently prods Dean with his foot. "Okay...time for bed. Get some rest."

Dean sniffles, clutching the tissue box, and scuffs across the floor. When he reaches the doorway, he turns back. "Really...thangks, Bobby."

"Anytime, son."

xxxxx

It's much later that he tangles with that which is Sam.

Bobby remembers a very young Sam, stubborn even at the age of three, crawling into Bobby's lap and demanding stories every minute. Bobby's convinced that Sam's love of lore and research comes from Bobby sharing said lore and research in the form of "stories" to his young charge, particularly when the little guy was sick and needing constant supervision.

Adult Sam, when sick, doesn't need constant supervision. But he does like it, or at least some form of it. He doesn't like the attention anymore (Bobby blames John for that), but he still likes the stories.

So when Bobby's looking up info on a Lang Suir, it's almost predictable that's when Sick Sam decides to make an appearance. The confusion from the head bop seems to have cleared up, but the heavy cough and sore shoulder have not. For a second, Bobby wonders if he could actually hold Sam on his lap.

"Hey there...what're you doing up?" Bobby slowly stands and stretches, coming around his desk to guide a miserable looking Sam to the armchair.

Sam shrugs. "Woke up coughing, couldn't go back to sleep." Didn't want to wake Dean, so…

Bobby nods, understanding. This happened a lot, too. "How about some hot tea?" Sam nods. "One hot beverage coming right up." Normally, Bobby'd spike it, encourage Sam to sleep a little more. But he knows that mucus relief medicine should get into Sam as well, and while it would be amusing, he doesn't think the two should mix.

As Bobby heats the water, he knows exactly what's happening in the library. Sam's peeking at the book open on the desk, formulating a series of questions that ultimately will turn into the story that'll occupy his brain for the next several hours, both consciously and unconsciously.

They're like clockwork, these two.

He returns with a steaming mug and some pills, hiding a grin at Sam's guilty face, caught leaning over the desk. He's supposed to be gruff, right? Right.

"Sorry, Bobby...I was just...Malaysian banshees?! I didn't even know they - " He broke off, coughing wetly into his sleeve, leaning on the desk as the fit leaves him dizzy.

Bobby sets the mug on the desk and helps Sam back to the chair. "I didn't either, until one turned up in Virginia." He gestures at Sam to crank the lever and raise the footrest so the blanket he's getting doesn't rest on the floor more than on the patient. "Apparently, they only left an egg under one armpit."

Sam almost chokes on that. "What?!"

As Bobby hands over the pills and tea, he makes his way back to his desk, filling Sam in on the lore behind a lang suir, how this one got here, and who was handling the hunt. Little by little, Sam settles into the chair, legs pulled to his chest, cradling another hot water bottle. That awful cough seems to have abated now that he's taken some medicine and was sitting up.

All this, Bobby takes in as he prattles on, making small adjustments to Sam's care as needed. He even snuck a pillow under Sam's head to keep it from hanging over the side.

Bobby knows...every now and then, Sam needs some down time...a chance to process, a puzzle to muddle over, a minute to breathe. This is one of those times.

Eventually, Sam's watching him through sleep-heavy eyes. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby leans back, lacing his hands behind his head. "Didn't do nothin', just sharing the hunt."

Sam huffs through his nose, "Yeah, okay."

Bobby winks at him. "So you wanna hear how to kill one?"

xxxxx

It takes about a week for the various ailments to clear up. No one ended up seeing a doctor - Bobby was able to handle it all on his own. As they're packing to leave, he's confronted with the same bag of mixed emotions every time they go...glad to have his house back, not-as-glad to lose his kids.

They're on the porch, Bobby pawning off the last of the supplies in case they need them on the road.

"If you two do something stupid like this again - "

"We probably will…"

"I'll kick your asses from here to California - "

"That'd be a lot of ass kicking…"

"And when I'm done with you - "

"He'd probably lose steam somewhere in Idaho…"

"I'll burn your books and slash her tires."

Screeching halt.

"Yessir."

"That's what I thought."