A couple of things have changed about this story. Firstly, I decided not to go with Bobby's POV - I tried it, but it felt better from Dean's, with Bobby's actions and speech showing his POV instead. Secondly, it was going to be just two chapters... but then there just had to be a third, and then that didn't seem to be quite enough, so now chapter four is in progress! Well, I'm enjoying writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading! Thank you very much for reading so far!

Anyway, Dean is still lying in the snow outside Bobby's back door, so we'd better get back to him...

Dean curled himself up tight, like he used to on the backseat of the Impala when it was cold and Sammy was curled up next to him. Between them, they'd worked out a way of bracing themselves so they didn't fall off into the foot space, heads and shoulders kind of jigsawed together, feet against the doors. They'd fall off if Dad stopped suddenly, but mostly it worked.

But Sam wasn't here. So Dean would probably fall.

He was drifting away, drifting lazily in welcome warmth. But then a shout from inside the house made him twitch and the loud footstomps rapidly approached the door again. Bobby was coming back. He sounded angry. He'd be coming to blow the monster off his doorstep with a few well-placed rounds. Which was okay, because Dean probably was a monster - no one wanted to be around a monster and no one wanted to be around him, and even Dean could apply logic, though Sam said he couldn't.

The door was rattling - disturbing his rest. And then it opened and the yellow light spilled out and maybe warmth too. But Dean was already warm.

"Dean!"

He should be ready with a casual, "Hey, Bobby." But he wasn't.

"Balls!"

Bobby really was pissed. Dean had better get up and make his apologies for turning up unannounced - and he should offer to fix the lights that had been swaying about so much when he was crossing the yard.

He thought he said something to that effect, but Bobby's face, close above his, was shadowed by the peak of his cap, so Dean couldn't tell if his words had had any effect.

"Come on, son. Help me out here."

Son was better than idjit. Maybe he wasn't that pissed.

"Dean. Dean. Look at me."

Bobby's face was even closer, and Dean's head was supported by something, then it was jogging about, which was annoying. What the hell was Bobby up to?

"Dean. Come on, boy, wake up - do you think I'm gonna carry you over the threshold or something?"

"Uh."

"That's it. There we are. Let's go."

He was being hauled up and his legs had found some dregs of strength. He was moving, and Bobby was alternately grumbling and encouraging, right next to him - solid and smelling of engine oil, Old Spice and bourbon, just as he always had. Dean could see his own feet, stumbling on Bobby's old, tattered carpet.

It should be warm in here, in Bobby's scruffy, book-strewn house. He'd been sure it would be warm. But he'd been warmer outside the door, lying on his snowy bed. Dean was freezing cold again now - colder than ever, in fact.

"There you go."

The whole room lurched and twisted and Dean couldn't work out which way was up. And he was so cold.

"What the hell happened to you, boy? I couldn't believe it when I saw that car of yours out there, covered in snow."

Dean didn't know. He only knew he was slumped on Bobby's couch and he was freezing cold. He tried to say so, but Bobby cut off his efforts.

"Never mind. Let's get these wet things off first before you get hypothermia - if you haven't already. Then we'll see where all this blood's leaking from."

Blood? What? Shit. Had he bled on Baby's upholstery, without realising? Bobby was tugging at his clothes and Dean tried to help, but the blue-white, curled up claws of his hands didn't seem to be connected to him. Bobby grabbed one of them and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket but nothing happened.

"Straighten out a bit. I can't get this off with you all tucked up like that."

He couldn't straighten out. His arms must've frozen like that, curled up close to his chest.

"Oh well." Bobby turned away to his desk and turned back with a pair of scissors in his hand.

No way. Dean liked this jacket. And the shirts. He wheezed in protest.

"Looks like they're all torn up at the back anyways. Might as well," said Bobby.

Torn up?

"What the hell happened to you?" Bobby repeated, "and where's that so-called father of yours?"

Dean made a juddering sound in Dad's defence, but Bobby ignored him and set to work with the scissors.

"Sending you out on your own to hunt God knows what, God knows where. What kind of a man does that to his own son?"

Dean's teeth rattled together, but he couldn't tell Bobby that Dad only sent him to hunt things that he should be able to manage alone. And Dad hadn't known Dean would have to face down a wendigo, had he?

Bobby pulled part of his jacket away and some of his shirts with it. And Dean didn't want anyone pulling his clothes off. Why didn't Bobby just pour him a tumblerful of bourbon? That'd sort him out in no time.

"How are you doing, there, Dean?" Bobby's face was right up in his again, the cap tipped back on his head so that strands of wiry grey hair escaped beneath the peak.

Dean tried to find the word 'peachy.' But he felt colder than ever and now Bobby's study was shuddering and blurring and there was something wrong with the couch - sharp, hard jabs sticking into Dean's back.

"You're that white I'd think you were a ghost if you hadn't started up shivering - which is good. Shivering's better than shutting down." Bobby said. He pulled at Dean's collars and the hard jabs became burning tears as the fabric slid away from his back, which was Dean's cue to swear loudly - the only acceptable vocalisation of pain in the John Winchester book of injury.

Instead, Dean whimpered - a long, trembling, broken cry.

"Balls," said Bobby softly. "Well, okay. We definitely know where the blood's coming from now. One of the places at least." His work-roughened hands gripped Dean's shoulders. "Looks like you've got something stuck in there. Is that glass?"

Baby needed new glass. Dean had to fix it now, or snow might get in under the tarp. Bobby seemed fixated on him, though, when they had work to do.

"I'm gonna lay you down and then get some stuff. You with me?"

Bobby was crouching in front of him, peering into his face. Of course Dean was with him - where the fuck else would he be?

"Never mind. Here. Let's just…"

He was being manoeuvred to lie face down on the couch. Fuck that. His protests were muffled by the couch cushions until he got his head turned to the side.

"Fk-f-bee."

"I'll give you a pass for cussing at your Uncle Bobby, just this once." A tug and a thump and then another thump and his boots were off. Then more tugging, and, "Jesus, are these welded to your butt or something?"

No. Goddammit, not the jeans. But a series of sharp jerks and a prickling of cold on his legs told Dean that Bobby had gone ahead. Then there was a soft warmth covering him.

"I'm just gonna get some stuff. You stay right there, boy, you hear me? No gettin' up, and wandering off."

Bobby's grumbles retreated and Dean lay on his front on the couch and couldn't stop shuddering and trembling. The fire was lit. The fireplace was hidden behind Bobby's desk, but the wavy orange glow reflecting on the rows of books said there were definitely flames. He could go and sit in front of the fire, like he used to do with Sammy when they'd toast marshmallows, or things that Bobby hadn't exactly authorised for toasting, but they'd do it anyway, just to see what worked. Cheese was okay as long as you didn't wait too long and it slid off the stick. Pop tarts weren't okay, and Dean had been convinced they'd be great, but they'd just burst into flames and fallen onto the carpet so that he'd had to stamp on them to put out the fire. The burnt, stained patch was still there.

The old fishing tackle box that Bobby kept his medical kit in was dumped in front of Dean's face and there was a whoosh of cold air as the blanket lifted. Something warm and sloshy was tucked between him and the back of the couch and then Bobby pressed down on the cushion beneath him and tried to stuff another hot water bottle in the gap. It fell out and landed on the floor.

"Balls. Get in there, you varmint."

The squishy warmth ended up tucked beneath his shoulder.

"That'll have to do," said Bobby.

Dean stopped shivering for a couple of seconds and then started up again. But there was warmth building up beneath the blanket, finally, and maybe it'd get through to Dean soon and his teeth would stop chattering.

Bobby had gone again, but then he was back and Dean tracked the older hunter's legs as they disappeared around the desk. Logs thudded onto the fire and the flames spat and crackled.

"That'll keep her going for a bit."

He went back out to the kitchen, water ran, and then he was back, wiping his hands, pulling up a chair and opening up his kit. He snapped on some of those stretchy gloves which looked real funny if you filled them up with water, and even funnier if you tied them off and left them in Sammy's bed so that he shrieked like a girl and ran away yelling about zombie hands.

"What's funny? Nothin' looks very funny from where I'm sitting."

And it wasn't funny, because Sam wasn't around to play jokes on anymore and Dean still couldn't stop his teeth chattering for more than a couple of seconds at a time, and his back was really starting to hurt as well as the side of his face and his head. He'd been better off out in the snow where everything stayed numb. But nothing could numb the pain of losing his brother. A trail of cold trickled down his cheek.

"Hey, now, that's enough of that." Warmth curled around the back of Dean's neck. "I'll soon get you fixed up. Let's see what we've got."

The softness disappeared from Dean's back and the cooler air increased his shudders, which made everything hurt more.

"Shit," said Bobby, which wasn't reassuring. "Some of this is in pretty deep. And you're gonna have a full rainbow of bruises. Let me just see…"

Dean's whole body jerked and he cried out as Bobby probed his wounds.

"Sorry, boy. I'm sorry."

Bobby reached down and sorted through the contents of the box, drawing out a bunch of little packets of antiseptic wipes - the ones that stank and stung like fire ants and Dean hated. Bobby tore open one of the packs, but paused.

"Now, you know this is gonna hurt."

Dean knew. "Yyyuh."

"But once I'm done cleaning up a bit, well…" Bobby winked. "I've got some lidocaine I've been saving for a special occasion."

"s-s-s-m."

"You're darn right it's awesome," said Bobby. "So, brace yourself, son. I'm going in."

Cold swept slowly across his back once and then again.

"That's got some of the blood off." Bobby dropped the wipe on the floor and tore open a second packet. "Okay, here we go."

Fire erupted in a line across Dean's back. He groaned and panted and bit his lip, clamping his mouth closed.

"Don't hold back on my account," said Bobby. "There ain't no one here to impress - making out you don't mind the pain's just plain dumb if you ask me."

Bobby continued wiping and the sting penetrated deep like a hot knife slashing across his shoulder blades.

"Fff-kin hts."

"I know." It was the same softly patient voice he'd used when Dean had got himself scraped up climbing the wrecks in the yard when he was seven. Or when Sammy had fallen off the front porch when he was four. Or so many other times they'd been here as boys and Bobby had patched them up and calmed them down and glared at Dad if he'd grumbled about 'making them into cissies.' "Soon be done. Just getting it clean so I can stick you with the good stuff. Then we'll get the glass out."

Dean squinched his eyes up as tight as he could and mumbled slurring curses as the fiery line burned into him. Maybe it was more like a bullwhip than a knife.

"Okay, let's get some a' this into you now." Bobby drew anaesthetic into a syringe like a professional. He did the little tap and squirt thing and then his free hand rested in the small of Dean's back. "Some here, next to this bitch of a piece."

Dean could barely feel the added pain of the needle piercing his skin.

"A bit more here. And here. There. Let's give that a minute or so." Dean opened his eyes just as Bobby discarded the syringe and brandished a pair of tweezers. "Then I'll have a dig around."

Dig around? Dean hoped the lidocaine was the real deal.

"How'd this happen, son? You get thrown by something?"

"Wn-go," Dean said. His lips felt buzzy and fuzzy, but no longer numb. "Wn… wn-duh." Wendigo, window, window, wendigo. His eyelids were heavy now that he wasn't so cold.

"A wendigo? John had you tackling one of those mothers alone?" Bobby growled and spat some fruity curses - Dean'd get a slap around the back of the head if Bobby caught him using words like that. Sometimes Bobby didn't realise he wasn't a boy anymore and had the right to swear and drink and fight wendigos on his own if he wanted. Except he didn't want. He didn't want to hunt alone.

He licked his lips and made an effort, for Baby. "Broke the winduh. Needa new 'un."

"Now, don't you be worrying about that car of yours. We need to get you fixed up first. Can you feel that?"

There was probably snow piling up inside her. How could he not worry about his Baby?

"Dean? Can you feel that?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Good."

"Pala."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll go check on her when we're done here. Sounds like you'll need some new glass. Which I have, all ready and waiting, don't you worry." Bobby leant over, frowning. "Some little itty bits stuck in here. I'll get those first. Don't want to miss any."

Dean let his eyes fall shut and drifted through the plinks of glass falling onto something else that was as hard as glass and probably just as breakable, which was how Dean felt most of the time. Hard, hard, hard, until he broke.

Dean's eyes flew open again as pain lanced through him. He jerked and yelled.

"Sorry." A hand pressed down on his shoulder. "This is the last bit, but it's in pretty deep. Just let me… there you go."

Dean groaned - a deep, wrenching sob that would have earned him a lecture about 'being a man' from Dad. Why did men have to be made of wood or iron like some unfeeling, barely human lump?

The piece of glass fell with a clatter and Bobby picked up a wad of gauze and pressed down hard.

"All out now. Just need this to stop bleeding again then I'll do a bit of stitching. But let's get the rest cleaned up first."

Dean let his eyes droop shut again. "Huh?"

"You've taken a fair bash to the back of your head, son. And the side of your face is all scraped up. Got some bruising as well of course. The Canaries might do better if they had your wendigo as a pitcher."

The Sioux Falls Canaries - Bobby's home team. Dean didn't fancy taking on a wendigo armed just with a baseball bat.

"'S dead."

"Course it is, idjit." The clean cold of alcohol swiped around Dean's eye and down the side of his nose, stinging as it entered the cuts and scrapes. "I know you wouldn't leave a job undone."

Over his cheek, gentle but sure, sweep, sweep, and along his jawline, catching against the stubble. Dean winced.

"Well, that's not looking too bad," said Bobby, dabbing antiseptic cream here and there. "I'll just put a couple of band-aids on. One here." He stuck one just above Dean's eyebrow. "And another here. You'll have to shave around it. Right, let's have a look at the back of your melon. Turn around so I can see."

Dean lifted his head and turned it so he was facing the back of the couch, which was uncomfortable because now he was resting on the scraped side. He'd stopped shivering at some point but still didn't feel quite warm, as if his bones had absorbed the chill and didn't want to give it up. Bobby probed the back of his scalp and Dean flinched.

"Got a pretty big bump there, son. And more'n likely a concussion to go with it."

Well that explained a lot, not least the fact that he'd been sure he'd been with Dad. And Sam. Sam had been there, riding shotgun and laughing at him when he fell out of the car.

Cold moisture moved against his scalp as Bobby worked his way through his supply of antiseptic wipes, cleaning the blood out of Dean's hair and dabbing at the split skin.

Sam could laugh all he liked if he was here now and Dean'd just let him. He could laugh at Dean, flaked out on the couch like a landed fish. He could call Dean a wuss for all his flinches as Bobby treated his injuries. He could call Dean a jerk too, for any reason or for no reason - because Dean missed him. He missed him all the damn time and maybe it was the concussion that had knocked down his barriers, but right now Dean just couldn't lie to himself.

"Got some glue that'll hold this together." Bobby patted Dean's shoulder again. "Don't worry, we won't have to shave away any of your golden locks."

Sam had always been there and Dean had built who he was around his brother, both because he'd had to and because he'd wanted to.

He could feel Bobby's fingers pinching together the cut and it hurt - but he hurt more inside.

Dean's senses searched for his brother all the time - he couldn't stop, couldn't switch them off. And every time - when he didn't see Sam, didn't hear his voice or his tapping keyboard or his goddamn snore - every time he felt a pang of loss so deep and so raw, it was if Sam had left just this minute, had only just walked out the door.

When Dean was hunting he turned to Sam for back-up and he wasn't there. He sang along to music in the car and his brother didn't complain or join in. He booked a motel room with a bed for himself and one for Sam. He ordered a coffee for himself and one for Sam. He checked menus for stupid salads that Sam would like. Dean was constantly, constantly looking for his brother, to check he was okay, to make sure he was safe. And his heart still leapt with a crazy spurt of adrenaline every time Sam wasn't there, wasn't where he should be, because he should be able to see Sam, he should be there, right there, where Dean could protect him from everything.

"Gonna stitch these up, now, okay? Just the bits where the glass was in real deep."

"Yeah," Dean whispered.

"Are you okay there?"

"Yeah." His face was stinging, because he was lying on the scrapes and because salt always stings open cuts. Dean bit his lip and closed his eyes, and a hot trail ran over the bridge of his nose and joined the other tears that kept leaking out no matter how hard he tried to close his lids together to keep them in.

"Dean?"

He sniffed. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop his lips turning down, his face screwing up, his nose running.

So he turned his head and hid, face down, burying his sadness, and he let the tears run away to dampen the worn old couch cushions.

Sorry! I didn't mean to leave everyone in tears - it just happened. But at least he's warm now and Bobby's being nice.