A/N: EmilyAnnMcGarrett-Winchester — I hope you don't mind, I loved your review so much that I decided to quote it in this chapter ;)
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters don't belong to me.
When yet another round of shivers wracked Dean's body, he decided it was probably time to get somewhere warm. Between the rain and his brother's tears, he was soaked. Add to that his lack of fat, and it might as well feel like sitting in a blizzard. Sam was faring much the same, since his clothes were damp with sewer water.
Dean used one hand to hold Sam against him and reached for his brother's wrists with the other, running gentle fingers over the abrasions the ropes had left behind. Sam bit his lip with a wince, but didn't pull away.
"I shouldn't have left you alone," Dean murmured guiltily, lightly touching his forehead to Sam's and closing his eyes. This was all his fault. His trust of Anne led to him letting down his guard, and he ended up leaving his brother in the clutches of a monster. He'd ignored one of his Dad's most important lessons.
"We can only trust each other, Dean. You understand? You, me, and Sammy—we're all we got."
"I understand, Dad."
So much for that. How many times was he going to fail his little brother before something truly terrible happened?
"You can't protect me from everything," Sam responded quietly, his voice thick from crying.
"I can try," Dean declared firmly, leaning back so he could meet Sam's gaze. His brother blinked up at him with that signature puppy dog look.
"You know I don't blame you, right?" He pressed.
Dean smiled. "I know, Sammy." And he did. Sam wasn't one to hold a grudge, and he had never taken much notice of Dean's obvious faults. "What do you say we get out of here?" He said, changing the subject. Sam nodded vigorously, and Dean helped him to his one good foot. "Stay here for a second," he ordered, waiting until Sam leaned his weight against a pole to step away. Sam's iron grip on his shirt stopped him from getting very far, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. When Sam realized what he was doing, he let go with an embarrassed blush.
"Sorry," he mumbled, dropping his gaze.
Dean's mouth quirked up in fond amusement. He closed the gap between them and brushed a hand over Sam's hair, placing a brief kiss on the top of his head. "Never be sorry, Sammy," he whispered reassuringly, then turned away to retrieve his knife before his brother could respond.
Dean's expression transformed into a grim frown as he crouched next to the body of the shifter. He leaned over, yanking his knife out of its chest without preamble, and wiped the blood onto its shirt before tucking the weapon back into his boot. He'd have to come back later to burn the body. The sense of morbid deja vu gnawed at him, and he briskly stood back up and returned to his brother.
"Alright, hop on." He gestured toward his back. One piggyback ride, coming up.
Sam eyed him with caution. "Are you sure you can carry me up the ladder and all the way back to the apartment?" He asked doubtfully.
Dean scowled. "Sammy, you weigh like five pounds. Of course I can," he scoffed, waving more insistently for his brother to get moving. Sam still looked uncertain, but he grabbed onto Dean's shoulders, jumping onto the older boy's back with ease despite his injury. He sucked in a breath when his ankle flared with pain, and hid his face in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean patted Sam's knee sympathetically. "I know it hurts, kiddo, but we'll be back at the apartment in no time," he assured, walking toward the ladder that led up to the street. Amidst his panicked searching earlier, he had noticed that they were only a couple blocks from where they were living. He didn't know if it was just a coincidence or if the shifter had known, but he didn't care. This would be a short trip. That's all that mattered.
"Hang on," he warned, waiting until Sam had both arms wrapped around his neck before he started climbing. He immediately felt the aftereffects of getting punched in the ribs, but forced himself to keep going.
Once he'd slid open the manhole cover and they finally made it back above ground, the pelting rain reminded them of its presence. Sam grumbled in agitation and ducked his head even further to escape the onslaught. Dean, on the other hand, just had to deal with it. He squinted and blinked water from his eyes as he lumbered forward, maintaining a keen awareness of their surroundings.
By the time he'd made it a block, his aches and pains were definitely catching up to him. Not because of Sam—he wasn't lying when he said his brother weighed next to nothing—but simply because he was up and walking. He just needed a warm shower and a soft bed—or in their case, mattress.
When they finally approached their apartment, Dean sighed with relief and had to hold himself back from sprinting the rest of the way. Sam lifted his head, shaking water droplets from his shaggy hair.
"Dude," Dean complained, but Sam merely giggled at his expense. It was nice to hear his brother laugh again, so he decided to let it go.
Climbing the stairs of their apartment was a challenge Dean wasn't prepared for, and when they finally made it to the top, he had to take a minute to regulate his breathing. His side was on fire.
Sam slid off his back, grabbing his arm for balance as he looked on in concern. "Dean? Are you okay?" He wondered in a small, nervous voice.
Dean leaned against the wall, giving his brother a thumbs up. "Dandy," he huffed, wrapping his arm around his torso.
Sam pursed his lips. "You look like crap."
Dean smiled wryly. "Well, I did just come out of a sewer," he deadpanned. Sam rolled his eyes, unimpressed with the lame attempt at humor. Dean fished the key out of his pocket, thankful that their door was the closest one. He unlocked it quickly, allowing Sam to use him as a crutch as they shuffled inside. As soon as the door was shut and locked behind them, Dean led Sam into the bathroom, sitting him on the toilet. "I'll be right back," he said before returning to the main room. He gathered some dry clothes out of the drawer at lightning speed, not liking the way his chest tightened with anxiety when his little brother was out of sight.
Dean returned to the bathroom with the necessary items, setting them on the counter so he could take a proper look at Sam. He crouched down, removing the dirty socks from Sam's feet. There were minor scratches on his soles, but nothing that wouldn't heal in a day or two. Still, they had to be bothering the kid.
Sam raised his hand and lightly touched Dean's cheek. "You're bleeding," he noted with a frown. Dean shrugged, unconcerned with his own injuries. The shifter had elbowed him so hard his skin had split open and he'd been left with a nasty bruise, but the cut wasn't deep. It wouldn't even require stitches.
"Shirt off," Dean commanded, redirecting the attention back to his brother. Sam sighed at the deflection, but obediently lifted his rain and mud-laden shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Dean cursed as he took in the sight of the giant bruise covering Sam's midsection. "What the hell happened?" He demanded, already having a pretty good guess.
"Got punched," Sam replied casually. "I kicked the shifter and he got mad."
Dean shook his head in exasperation. "You just had to piss off the monster."
Sam grinned cheekily.
After making sure his brother didn't have any more noteworthy injuries, Dean stood and turned on the water, holding his hand under the spray until it reached the proper temperature.
"Need help?" He offered seriously, fully intending to assist Sam with the whole process if his little brother needed him.
"No, I can do it," Sam answered confidently.
Dean tipped his head in acknowledgement, heading to the door. "Let me know if you need anything. This stays open, got it?" He instructed, tapping on the door with a pointed look. Sam agreed without a fuss.
Dean went to the kitchen and collapsed into the nearest chair. He was absolutely exhausted. All the adrenaline that had been coursing through him from the moment Sam disappeared was now evaporating, and he was left with sore muscles and a killer headache. He rubbed his forehead, trying to process all that had occurred tonight as he listened to the steady stream of the shower.
Anne was probably freaking out, but he didn't have the energy or the inclination to deal with that right now. He really hoped she hadn't called the police. They were a hassle he didn't need on top of everything else. Cops always made things worse when there was a monster involved. Dean really needed to burn that body before someone went snooping where they shouldn't.
He still couldn't believe the shifter had found them in the first place. That stupid hunt had been over a year ago. His dad should've known the job wasn't finished! They could have avoided all of this if he'd just killed the damn thing back then! And who knows how many other enemies from his dad's past would show up at their doorstep down the line? There was no way they could stay in Philadelphia now. Dean had been a fool to think they'd be safe staying in one place.
He leaned back in his seat, letting out a frustrated sigh.
Dean didn't blame his dad…not really. He knew the man did his best. It was just their life. A hunter's past always catches up with him or her eventually. That didn't mean he wasn't still pissed at their situation, though. There were so many threats out there—more than he could take on by himself. How was he supposed to protect Sam?
Dean sat moping at the table for about fifteen minutes before he heard the water cut off. He heard a bit of stumbling around and grunting before Sam called out for him. In an instant, he was on his feet and rushing to the bathroom. To his surprise, Sam was waiting for him when he arrived, wearing a sheepish smile. He was already dressed in sweatpants and one of Dean's old shirts, but he was leaning heavily against the counter.
"Can you help me walk?" He asked, holding out a hand. Satisfied he wasn't hurt, Dean ignored the hand and instead scooped up his brother, eliciting a yelp from the younger boy. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, automatically wrapping his arms around his brother's neck for balance.
Dean carried him out of the bathroom and over to the mattress and delicately but promptly dumped him onto it, snickering as his brother glared up at him. "What? Just trying to be efficient," he defended playfully.
"Jerk," Sam muttered, adjusting his position so he was lying on his side. Dean didn't miss his pained grimace as he moved his right leg.
"I'm gonna go get something from the car to wrap that ankle," he announced, wanting to do it before he showered.
Sam's eyes widened, and he sat up immediately. "Y-You're leaving?" He stammered, looking two seconds away from tackling Dean to the floor to make sure he stayed put.
Dean kneeled beside him, resting his palm reassuringly against Sam's cheek. "I'm just going to the lot out back. I'll be quick, Sammy," he promised. The Impala had been parked in the gravel lot behind the apartment complex since they'd arrived in Philadelphia, mostly untouched save for Dean occasionally starting the engine to make sure she stayed operational.
Sam chewed on his lip. "Pinky swear?" He said softly, holding up his little finger. Dean smiled at the reminder of his kid's innocence, and wrapped his pinky around Sam's.
"Pinky swear," he agreed.
Sam nodded, mollified enough to let Dean go. He lay back down, tucking his hands underneath his cheek. Dean watched him for a moment to make sure he was okay, then walked over to their duffel bag. He dug around inside, pulling out his Colt and some silver bullets. After loading the magazine, he shoved the gun into his waistband behind his back.
"I'll be back in a minute. Don't open the door for anyone," he ordered. After a moment of thought, he added, "Even me." He wasn't taking any chances. Sam looked perturbed at the idea that there would be another shifter lurking around, but he nodded.
Dean's jacket was still at the store, so he braced himself to deal with the rain again.
"I seriously wish we lived on the beach," he muttered.
Bobby sighed, staring down at the John Winchester look-alike with a mixture of anger and regret. The shifter had been especially cruel in choosing that form over any other. If it wanted to hurt the boys, it most definitely succeeded. He wished he'd had the pleasure of ganking the son of a bitch, but he'd been just a little too late.
He'd tracked the boys through the alleyways and down through the sewers with minimal issue, but all he'd found was the shifter's body. The knife wound in its chest made for a pretty clear picture of what happened. The damn thing should've known you can't beat a Winchester.
As happy as he was that Sam and Dean had killed the monster, it did send him back to square one. The boys could be anywhere by now. He sighed, glancing around the dark space for any clues. There was some cut rope and torn duct tape, but nothing that would hint to their current whereabouts.
It didn't matter, though. He'd scour every inch of this city until he found them.
Deciding there was nothing he could do now except burn the evidence, he clambered up the ladder to head back to the surface. He would need some supplies. The rain pelted him directly in the face as soon as he was out of the sewer, and he swore under his breath for the hundredth time that night.
Bobby pulled his collar up higher, trying to block at least some of the rain. He grumbled more obscenities as he glanced around, calculating what the quickest route back to his car would be. He'd gotten pretty turned around, but he knew the general direction he needed to go.
Just as he turned to start the miserable trek back, he caught sight of a slim figure dashing through the pouring rain a couple blocks over. Bobby couldn't make out any details, but he felt an itch to go after the person, for no other reason than simple curiosity. Why would anyone (except himself, of course) be out in this rain? Without a jacket, no less. Never one to ignore his gut instincts, he walked down the alley to where he'd seen the stranger, hoping he wasn't spending extra time in this weather for nothing.
He traveled the two blocks quickly, his boots splashing in puddles with every step. As he got closer, he noticed a small, gravel parking lot behind a decrepit building. He slowly made his way through the rows of beat up old cars, tempted to bring out some sort of weapon. Something didn't feel right…
Just as he had the thought, his gaze fell upon a familiar black beast of a car, still as shiny and beautiful as the last time he'd laid eyes on it. It had been two years, but he'd recognize it anywhere. He also recognized the figure rummaging around in the trunk, despite the boy being taller and skinnier—and considerably more wet—than the last time he'd seen him.
"Dean?" He whispered in shock, unable to close his slack-jawed mouth. Although the word was spoken quietly through loud, torrential rain, Dean still managed to hear. His entire body froze, and the next second he was facing Bobby, gun aimed at the older man's heart. As soon as he noticed who it was, Dean's expression mirrored Bobby's—complete disbelief.
"Bobby?" He said, lowering the gun an inch—unfortunately, not enough to no longer be a threat. His voice was deeper than Bobby remembered, not to mention how tall he'd gotten in just two years. It was also hard to miss the bruises covering his face, but Bobby guessed those were more recent additions thanks to a certain monster.
"Damn, it's good to see you, kid," Bobby laughed, overcome with emotion all of a sudden. He hadn't realized exactly how much he'd missed the Winchester boys until this very moment.
Dean's hand shook a bit, and he glanced around uncertainly before focusing back on Bobby. "I-I don't understand. You aren't—You're not supposed to be here," he stumbled for words, adjusting his grip on the gun.
Bobby raised his hands placatingly, deciding it best not to move any closer. "I know. We haven't seen each other in a long time—too long—and I show up the same night you kill a shifter," he acknowledged. "But it's really me, Dean. I came to find you," he explained.
Dean's eyes narrowed, and his stance became a little more solid. "Prove it's you," he demanded.
Bobby held back a sigh, having expected as much. With practiced ease, he took out his silver pocket knife and flipped it open, holding it out so Dean could see. Then, he rolled up his sleeve and made a shallow cut below his inner elbow, letting the red blood flow. Dean stared for a moment, then nodded once in acceptance. However, his gun remained raised.
"Okay, fine. You're really Bobby. Now what the hell are you doing here?" He snapped, any sign of discomfort replaced with cold indifference. Bobby had never heard that tone from him.
"I told you, I came to find you," Bobby repeated patiently, tucking the knife back into his pocket and rolling down his sleeve.
"Why?" Dean growled.
"Because it's time for you to come home," Bobby answered firmly, finally taking a step forward. He paused when he heard the hammer click.
"Don't," Dean warned icily.
"Dean…"
"I don't have a home anymore. So you can get the hell out of here," he continued scathingly.
Bobby had never backed down from a Winchester, and he wasn't starting now.
"Dean, I know life has screwed you six ways to Sunday, and you've been forced to deal with shit no kid should ever have to deal with, but you've still got people that care about you. People like me. And I ain't goin' anywhere without you, kid," Bobby declared, having to raise his voice above the rain. "You and Sam—"
"You don't get to say his name!" Dean shouted, possessive fury seeping into his tone. The fourteen year old gave off the energy of a fully-grown, extremely pissed, man. "It's been over two years since we saw you! You think you can just come here, act like we're family, and everything will be good? I don't know you, Bobby. Not anymore." He shook his head emphatically, flinging water droplets from the tips of his short hair.
Bobby clenched his jaw, wishing he could turn back time and stop his fight with John before it happened. Maybe then, things would be different. "Dean, please…I'm still the same Bobby. I made you soup when you were sick. I threw the baseball with you in the backyard. I taught you everything I know about cars," he pleaded. Dean's demeanor shifted slightly at the reminders of his past, as if the memories had eluded him up until that point. "Family don't end in blood," Bobby murmured. It was something he'd told John on multiple occasions, and it still rang true today.
Dean hesitated for another few seconds, then reluctantly lowered the gun to his side, pushing the hammer back to its original position. Bobby remained where he was, not wanting to startle the boy.
"Just…go home, Bobby. Please," Dean implored, much softer this time. The fingers of his free hand tapped rapidly against his thigh, like he was anxious to be somewhere else.
Bobby smiled with forced levity. "Can't do that, kid," he told him, tilting his head apologetically. Dean sighed heavily, glancing briefly at the open trunk. "You're hurt, Dean. Let me help," Bobby suggested, though it came out as more of a command.
Dean snorted humorlessly, surveying their surroundings absentmindedly. "I can take care of myself," he retorted.
Bobby risked a step forward, pleased when Dean didn't protest or aim the gun at him again. "I have no doubt about that, but I'm already here, so you might as well let me take a look at you," he advised lightly. He took another step, and another, until he was standing just a foot away. Dean kept a wary eye on him and grabbed a first aid kit out of the trunk, slamming it closed afterward.
"I'm fine," he grumbled, never one to show any weakness. "It's Sammy that's hurt," he revealed, wiping his rain-flattened hair off his forehead as he gazed worriedly toward the apartment complex across from them.
Bobby nodded understandingly. "I can help, Dean," he insisted again.
Dean's closed-off expression returned, and he backed up a couple steps. "I'm not letting anyone near my brother," he argued. Not even you went unsaid, but Bobby heard it all the same. There was a time when Dean would've entrusted Sam's life to Bobby's care without a second thought. Damn if it didn't hurt to lose that trust.
"I'd die for that boy, Dean, and you know it," Bobby said, unintentionally sharp.
Dean considered his words seriously, his need to get back to his brother battling with his determination to keep Bobby away. Bobby felt like he was being sized up, like Dean was cataloging his every weakness in case he needed that knowledge for later. The kid was far more intimidating than he had a right to be at that age.
Eventually, his concern for Sam won out and he huffed in defeat. "Fine. Follow me," he ordered, then raised his weapon threateningly. "But I'm warning you…If you touch him, I'll kill you," he said bluntly.
"Fair enough," Bobby acquiesced with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. In reality, he was deeply troubled by how violent Dean had become. He'd always been protective of Sam, but this was at a whole new level. That shifter definitely chose the wrong person to mess with.
Dean led the way to his apartment. Bobby could tell he had an unseen injury on his torso by the way he held himself, but didn't mention it. He doubted it would do any good, anyway. John had never liked admitting when he was hurt, and his son was the same way.
Damn stubborn Winchesters.
When they reached the door, Dean pursed his lips, glancing Bobby's direction. Bobby waited in silence, praying he would actually let him inside. It took a few uncomfortable seconds, but Dean did end up opening the door, and quickly darted forward, leaving Bobby to shut the door behind them.
When he turned around, the first thing he noticed was how dingy the tiny studio apartment was. The walls had stains of every color, the cabinets looked ready to fall off their hinges, and the only furniture was a dresser, a cheap kitchen table, and some well-worn chairs. It made his place look like a five-star resort.
The next, much more important thing he noticed was the small boy curled up on a thin mattress to his left. Dean was sitting next to him, blocking Bobby's view for the most part, and was running his hand through the kid's hair.
"You didn't fall asleep on me, did you, Sammy?" Dean teased. His tone was completely different than it had been with Bobby.
"Sorry…I'm just tired," Sam replied through a yawn. His voice hadn't changed much at all, and Bobby let the familiarity of it comfort him. The kid was okay…They both were. An entire year of living on their own, and somehow they'd managed to get through it alive.
"I think you've earned a rest," Dean allowed.
Sam started to sit up in spite of his brother's words, but went completely rigid when he saw their visitor. His eyes went as wide as saucers, then he was scrambling to his feet. Well, foot. Bobby noted the horrid ankle injury, and his chest twinged in sympathy. Dean stood as well, keeping his brother steady while also acting as a human shield.
"Uncle Bobby?" Sam exclaimed, grasping onto Dean's arm like he was afraid of collapsing.
The older man smiled, trying not to exude too much excitement at seeing the younger boy again after two years. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. "Hey, squirt," he greeted warmly.
Sam looked up at Dean, waiting for confirmation.
"It's really him, Sammy," Dean assured, rubbing the kid's back.
Sam's attention returned to Bobby, his face breaking into a grin. It was a much better response than Dean had given him. "Uncle Bobby! You came!" He said happily, trying to move forward but hindered by his ankle. He huffed in childish frustration, turning the full power of his puppy dog eyes onto Dean. The older brother shook his head, casting Bobby an irritated glance.
"He just got here, Sammy. Let the man breathe," he admonished, trying to conceal his own suspicions of Bobby in front of his brother. "Besides, you need to lay down and rest. And I need to wrap that ankle," he added. Sam deflated, but let himself be lowered back onto the mattress. His gaze never left Bobby, though.
"Where have you been, Uncle Bobby? We haven't seen you in forever!" He complained. Dean looked between them, listening in silence as he unrolled a bandage from the first aid kit.
"I'm sorry about that, squirt. I've been…pretty busy," he answered vaguely, unsure exactly what John and Dean had told him. "But when I caught wind of where you boys were, I busted tail to get here," he told him honestly.
"Are you staying?" He asked hopefully. "You could sleep here if you want!" He offered.
"Sammy," Dean cut in, giving his brother a pointed glare as he wrapped the boy's swollen ankle with the gentleness of a mother.
"Actually, Sam, I was hoping to take the two of you back to my place in Sioux Falls. How does that sound?" Bobby could feel the daggers Dean was sending his way, but he couldn't care less. He was down to play dirty if it got them to leave with him.
Surprisingly, Sam appeared stand-offish at the idea of going with Bobby. He met Dean's gaze again, asking an unspoken question that Bobby wasn't privy to. Those boys always did have a certain silent communication between them that no one else could quite decipher.
The corner of Dean's mouth lifted, and his expression was almost proud as he looked back to his task. "What happens when we get there, Bobby? Huh?" He questioned, his voice hard once again. "We live together like one big, happy family? Or maybe you just ship us off to social services," he sneered, tucking the end of the bandage in place before shifting around to face the older hunter.
"Don't be a smart-ass," Bobby snapped, tired of the kid's attitude, though deep down he knew Dean was just scared and resorting to defensive measures. "I'd never do anything like that. I want you boys to live with me. I want you to be safe," he explained.
"There's no safe," Dean protested heatedly. "Our dad is dead. There is no safe," he repeated vehemently. Sam leaned against Dean's back, trying to provide comfort with his presence alone. It seemed to work, since Dean took a moment to just breathe.
"I heard Caleb that night," Dean continued, calmer now. "He and Jim were talking about separating me and Sam. I won't let that happen. Ever," he vowed.
Bobby's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He had no idea what the kid was talking about, but Dean was no liar. He'd have to ask Caleb about it when he arrived.
"I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding," Bobby told him. Dean scoffed in disbelief, pressing his lips together tightly as he glanced down at his folded hands. "Dean, I swear to hell and back—I will never separate you two," he promised. "So if that's what you're worried about, then…Stop worryin'."
Dean looked up through his eyelashes, his face scrunching in thought. His expression grew more vulnerable than Bobby had ever seen it, and he could tell the kid was struggling with indecision.
"I…I'm scared, Bobby," he admitted at last, his voice wavering.
Bobby nodded in understanding. "I know, kid. That's why I'm here," he responded softly.
Dean exhaled shakily. "I don't know what to do anymore," he stated helplessly. "I thought I could handle everything, but then it all went to shit, and now…Now I just don't know," he ranted, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Bobby had a feeling the poor boy was on the verge of a breakdown.
"You just gotta take it one day at a time, Dean. Hell, one moment at a time. And if you come with me, I'll be there when it gets to be too much," he reassured him, crouching down so they were eye level. "You've got the weight of the world on your shoulders, kid. Let me help you carry the load." Bobby didn't care how sentimental he sounded. He just wanted Dean to know the truth of the matter.
Dean lifted his head, regarding Bobby with an ounce of that trust the older man had missed and finally, finally, gave him a genuine smile.
