Poor Dean is crying into Bobby's couch cushions. And he's being looked after physically, but how is Bobby going to patch up Dean's emotions?

I hope you like this chapter - chapter four is about ready to go, all but a little bit of refining. And it isn't just a little epilogue, either - I think it's the longest, so you can look forward to more juicy hurt/comfort next Sunday too!

Dean's back was still numb from the anaesthetic. All he could feel of Bobby's stitches was a vague tugging somewhere around his shoulder blades, where the jagged edges of the Impala's window had cut him.

Bobby hadn't noticed he was crying. Dean could feel his shoulders jerking as his breath hitched unevenly, but hopefully Bobby would think that was just because he'd been so cold and his lungs hadn't gotten over it yet.

It was stupid. Just fucking stupid. He was a grown-ass man, not a kid anymore - and mostly he hadn't cried as a kid anyway, because Dad wouldn't put up with that kind of shit. And when they'd been left with Bobby… well, if you were used to shutting up and holding it in, that's what you carried on doing.

What would Dad think of him now? Blubbering and snivelling because he was hurt and concussed, but mostly because he missed his brother. And now that Dean had started, he couldn't seem to stop. He'd held it all in for so long - held it in and crushed it down and clamped his jaw until his teeth ached. And if he'd felt close to losing it these past months, when the loneliness bit as deep as the curving canines of a werewolf - well there'd been the hunt, hadn't there? There were always monsters to take out his feelings on, to drown out the grinding sense of loss. And besides the hunt, there were bars where he could look at the local tough guy the wrong way, or smirk and wink at his girl, and trade in his grief for a quick burst of savage aggression and the sharp, bright pain of a beating, distracting him from the fierce, constant ache.

Bobby had finished. He was clearing up, pulling the woollen blanket back over Dean, snapping off his gloves. The old fishing tackle box clicked as it closed and there was a creak as Bobby got up from his chair. Dean heard him moving about in the kitchen, putting stuff away, running the faucet.

And still Dean couldn't stop, and his head ached and he wanted a drink and another drink and another to take it all away. He pressed his face harder into the cushions which hurt the scraped side of his nose and the cuts on his jaw and brow, but he didn't care.

"Dean."

He tried so hard to make his breathing slow and even. Bobby would think he was asleep and go away.

"Dean. Son."

Get a grip. Just get a fucking grip. Shake it off, lock it down.

His breath hitched again. His nose was completely blocked and he couldn't stop the tiny breath of a sob escaping his mouth.

Bobby wouldn't put up with this for long. He'd tell Dean to snap out of it, to stop wallowing in his pity party. And he was right. Dean had a job to do - an important job that he'd been doing for over half his life if you counted the hunts where his role had been to just sit in a room, or under a tree or, once, in a family vault, with the name-plates of all the dead at his back. He'd had to sit and wait, armed with just a handful of salt and a cup of holy water when he was really little, and when the thing had come Dad would get it and Dean would help. So now, he was fine. He was trained, honed - a weapon that Dad had made and sent out into the world. And he didn't need anyone to hold his hand, least of all his little brother. Or his Dad.

So why did the tears keep on leaking out of his eyes?

"Sit up, Dean. Come on."

Here it came. The pull-yourself-together speech. Okay. Fine.

Dean rolled over onto his side, bright, flashing pain bursting in his head. He ignored it and tried to push himself up and fuck, the anaesthetic was wearing off and he could feel the stitches in his back, tight and straining against his damaged muscles.

"Hey, easy there, son."

Bobby's arms curled around Dean's shoulders, supporting him until he was upright and Dean tried not to let himself sag weakly. He swiped at his face with the back of one hand and sniffed, and shrugged so Bobby'd know he didn't need help. The blanket had slid down and he must look stupid, sitting there in just his boxers. But his head hurt so much and stars sparkled at the corners of his vision as he stared down at his own knees, avoiding Bobby's gaze. Dean twitched the blanket over his lap and felt ill.

"Now that's enough of that, Dean."

Yeah, here it came. He braced himself and sat up straighter, but still didn't look up. Bobby's eyes would be hard, like Dad's - a hunter who'd patched up a comrade-in-arms and now expected him to pull some kind of a mask back on and stop embarrassing both of them. Dean clamped his jaw tight and crossed his arms. He could take whatever Bobby might dish out. It'd be good for him - get him back on track, ready for when Dad called, which could be any time.

"I said that's enough!" There was a loud huff. "You Winchesters… give me strength. I just meant you to sit up so I could get you more comfortable. Didn't mean you had to come to attention and salute," grumbled Bobby. "Here." He draped another blanket around Dean's shoulders. "Now you just lie back and give yourself a chance to recover - none of that hard-man Winchester crap, thank you very much."

Oh.

"Go on."

Dean let his aching muscles relax, sagging back slowly against the cushions. He cast a quick glance upward. There was no hardness, no derisive curl of a lip or disappointed tightening around Bobby's eyes - just concern. And patience.

"There you go. Your back okay like that?"

Dean swallowed. Why was concern so hard to take? Why did it make his throat ache, as if he was going to let the floodgates open again - which he wasn't. "Yeah. It's okay." The freshly stitched wounds hurt, but the pressure wasn't too bad and it was better than lying face down. He pulled the blanket around him and held it closed.

Bobby nodded and pointed an insistent finger. "Now, you just sit there awhile and I'll make us some hot chocolate, if you think you could keep that down - looking a bit green around the gills there, boy."

"'M okay."

"Course you are. Hmm." Bobby scratched his beard. "Course you are," he muttered. "Anyways. Hot drink, warm clothes and then we've got a few things to talk about which I don't think can wait, concussion or no concussion."

Dean grunted and closed his eyes. He heard Bobby moving away, and listened to cupboards opening and shutting in the kitchen, the rising hiss of the kettle on the hob, and other sounds - soft and sustained and rattling, blending into a background that he hadn't realised was familiar - the kitchen movements, the spit and crack of logs, the scent of woodsmoke and leather binding and old house, which would let in all the winter chill if the fire didn't drive it out.

What would his and Sam's childhood have been like if they'd lived here all the time? If they hadn't had to move on every few weeks, motel room to motel room to abandoned house to borrowed hunter's cabin, stark and with none of the comforts of a true home.

Bobby would have had them. Dean had overheard him talking to Dad more than once, about letting the boys stay on a more permanent basis. But it hadn't happened, and the older hunter had finally had enough of John's ways and seen him off the property at the other end of a shotgun. It had felt like a betrayal at the time - one more avenue closed off, one less place Dean and Sam could snatch a few precious weeks of stability in their ever-changing world. But now that he'd grown up, Dean had realised Bobby had his demons too and didn't blame him.

A tray rattled on the side table and the warm sweetness of hot chocolate drifted over to Dean. But his head ached and he didn't want to put a hand outside the warm blankets or even open his eyes again, and he could feel the dried tear-tracks on his face.

"Here. Lift up."

Dean opened his eyes at that and winced as the light made his headache flare. But, oh God, the embarrassment. Bobby was actually trying to dress him like a little kid.

"I can do that."

This won him a glare. "You'll let me help." The implied 'if you know what's good for you, idjit' didn't need to be spoken.

Dean huffed, and gave in, but drew the line at Bobby pulling the soft old sweats up around his waist - he could do that himself. But he let Bobby pull warm woollen socks up over his feet and help him put on a worn cotton tee and a chunky knitted sweater with holes in both elbows. He thought that was Bobby's. The sweats were probably some Sam had left behind, judging by the way they pooled around Dean's ankles.

Bobby made him swallow a couple of Tylenol and then pushed a mug of hot chocolate into his hands. "Should be cool enough to drink now."

He sat down on the other end of the couch, his own drink in hand, to which he'd added a little something, judging by the bitter scent of strong alcohol. Dean thought about asking for his drink to be similarly spiked, but knew he'd just get another 'idjit' for his troubles.

Bobby took a hearty gulp and smacked his lips. "Mmm. Good stuff."

Dean sipped his own, unsure whether his concussed brain would send a message to his stomach to add an extra layer of chaos all over Bobby's patterned carpet.

The couch wobbled as Bobby fidgeted - and fidgeting just wasn't a Bobby thing. 'A few things to talk about,' he'd said. Fuck. Seriously?

Dean kept his eyes on his own drink, but next to him there was a slurp, then another, then a little pissy sigh, another slurp and then the irritating chink, chink, chink of a fingernail tapping against china.

If he was struggling that much, why didn't he just give up? Nothing needed to be said. Dean had shown up hurt, been patched up, end of story.

Bobby huffed again. And then spoke.

"Sometimes," he said, "I wish I'da had kids of my own." He slurped another mouthful of his drink. "Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I think I woulda fucked 'em up, same as my old man did to me."

Dean curled his hands around his warm mug and said nothing. He didn't really know much about Bobby's family history. Bobby hadn't told them anything and Dad certainly hadn't, if he even knew anything.

"With my old man, you never knew what'd set him off. You thought he wanted you one way and then he'd kick off cause you wasn't the other." Bobby shook his head. "I guess no matter what I did or how I was it wouldn'ta been right for him."

He drained his mug and set it down on the side table, but then didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

"My wife, now, she had it different."

His wife? Bobby had never mentioned her, not ever.

"She was brought up to be a good girl, which don't sound too bad, do it? But she always said she had to be good. She had to be sweet and nice and polite and do the stuff girls are supposed to do, or were back then - I don't know now. Baking, sewing and such. She had to make herself be what her folks thought she should be. And girls weren't supposed to make any trouble, wanting things they weren't supposed to have. They weren't supposed to get mad. They weren't supposed to have opinions in their heads that hadn't been put there. They were supposed to smile and be pretty for their parents and then smile and be pretty for their husband. Things ain't so different now, maybe, for lots of girls. But, anyways, what it boils down to is this - if she behaved she got loved, if she didn't behave, then, well… she didn't."

Okay, so Bobby had really gone off on one. Maybe he'd been slugging from the bottle when he was making the hot chocolate? Maybe he'd been hitting it all day, even before Dean's dramatic arrival. Dean cast him a sideways glance. He didn't look drunk. But Bobby could hold his liquor and that was a fact.

"So, what I'm saying is, who are you, Dean?" Bobby squirmed around to face him, and his eyes were bright beneath the battered old cap. "Because I know who your Daddy wants you to be. I know what you've made yourself into, for him. But who are you really? What do you want out of life?"

Dean froze and Bobby's gaze pinned him, so he couldn't look away.

"Your brother's decided what he wants to be - how about you?"

"What?"

Bobby shrugged. "It's a simple question, boy, or should be. What do you want?"

What did he mean, what did Dean want? What the hell difference had what he wanted ever made to anyone? "I'm a hunter, Bobby. You know that."

"Yeah, well, maybe. Maybe that's what gets your blood pumping, gets you up in the morning. You're good at it, that's for sure. But what if your Mommy hadn't died like that? What'd you be doing now?"

Dean's grip tightened on his mug and the contents shivered. "She did. She did die."

"I know that, son." His voice was soft. "But I'm just tryin' to get you to think for yourself a bit. Just for a change."

"What the hell are you on about, Bobby? You think I'm stupid? That I can't live my own life - take responsibility for myself just because I got hurt on a hunt? Is that it?" Dean's head was pounding.

"Cool your britches, boy. That's not what I meant at all. You've been taking responsibility for yourself - for your whole family since you were a little kid." He pulled off his cap, smoothed down his hair and then jammed the cap back on again. "Whether you're capable of listening to a word I said is a different matter."

"I'm listening, Bobby. You're just talking crap."

"You're not listening, Dean. Because I'm saying that you're like my Karen. I'm saying that, growing up, you had to do what your Daddy wanted, be what he wanted because it was the only way to earn his approval. I'm saying that if you'd been a normal kid, doing what normal kids do - whining and whinging, kicking up a rare old fuss when you wanted something or when you didn't, if you'da had needs of your own instead of catering to your Dad and your brother since you were four years old - well, do you think John Winchester would still have wanted you? Do you think he would still have loved you?"

"Yes! He's my Dad! Of course he woulda wanted me. Of course he would!"

"So where was he, then? All those times he left you alone - just you, just a kid, to look after Sammy all on your own. Where was he? Where is he now?"

"What?"

"Where is he now?"

"What's that got to do with anything? He's hunting! And I'm not a kid anymore, Bobby! I don't need my Dad around the whole time!"

"You needed him then and he wasn't there for you, and you need him around now if you're going out hunting. And, you know what? To me that's exactly what you still are - a kid, whose Daddy should be looking out for him, instead of sending him out on his own to get hurt."

"You're talking bullshit, old man." Dean tried to get up and get away. He didn't need this. He was okay now - he could get in his car and just drive to the nearest motel.

But he only got halfway up from the couch before the room tilted and his legs turned to rubber and then Bobby, goddamn him, was supporting him as he sagged back onto the couch.

"Take it easy there, son."

"I'm not your son," muttered Dean, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes against the pain in his head and the spinning of the room.

"Just take a few breaths. Let things settle."

What else could he do? Dean took a long, slow breath in and then let it all seep away. "You're doing this on purpose," he whispered.

"What?"

"Talking. While you got me trapped here."

"Huh. Well, I'm not gonna lie. It seemed like a good opportunity."

Dean rolled his head away from Bobby and pulled the blanket back up around himself.

"Look, Dean. Maybe it's not the best time to be picking things apart - but there's some things need to be said."

"No, they don't."

"If I say they do, they do!" There was a pause, then a big sigh and Bobby continued, tiredly, "All I'm saying is - and I know you don't want to hear this - but John Winchester was wrong the way he treated you. And he still is."

Dean said nothing.

"Because he didn't need to change you - he shouldn'ta made you into what he wanted. Because you were a good kid and now you're a good man, Dean Winchester. And John should love you for what you are. And Sam too."

"He does. He does love us."

"Oh, really? So he was happy for your brother, was he? He was happy that Sam got what he wanted and went off to turn hisself into a lawyer? He wished him a fond farewell and told him he'd always be welcome back into his family's loving arms? Is that right?"

"Shut up, Bobby."

The scene lived in the part of Dean's mind that nightmares came from. But it wasn't a nightmare, it had really happened, and even now he could hardly believe it.

Maybe Sam had been right to leave - to decide what he wanted and to pursue his own dreams, to hunt them down just as hard as he and Dean had ever hunted a monster. And Dad's reaction had made no difference to him. In fact, the look on Sam's face as he finally turned away had been something like satisfaction - bridges fully burned, any remaining respect or even tolerance hacked away by Dad's words.

Sam had taken them as a challenge, as encouragement, as confirmation that he was doing the right thing. But they had torn out Dean's heart.

If you go now, don't you ever come back!

Poor Dean - missing his Sammy! But, ooh, I love to hate John Winchester so much! Thank you very much for reading. See you next Sunday.