Leave it to the Winchester boys to turn a simple salt-and-burn into life-or-death bullshit. Bobby wants to scold the two brothers, but he needs to get Sam out of danger first before he can bitch at him. So he settles for taking a breath, cursing John Winchester, and trying to soothe his eldest. If John hadn't insisted on the two of them going on their first hunt alone, none of them would be speeding down this dirt road, hearts in their throats, on a Saturday night that might just hurt like a bitch and scar like a knife.
Dean sits in the passenger seat next to Bobby, trying and failing to conceal his panic. At eighteen, he tries so hard to project the confidence that John Winchester wants to see. But in moments like this, all that leather jacket, Led Zeppelin bravado fades away like dandelions on a breeze. And truthfully, as much as Bobby hates to see Dean like this, he hopes he never loses that part of his humanity. He's seen too many hunters lose the light in their eyes before they even hit thirty. It's so easy to become jaded in this business, and so damned hard to keep feeling all the pain that it throws at you.
"Dean, eyes on the map," Bobby reminds him, gentle and yet insistent. He doesn't need Dean to keep an eye on their route, not really. But he needs Dean to stop looking over his shoulder at Sam in the backseat. He knows what he'll see, and that it won't be good, and he needs Dean's head on straight. Dean meets Bobby's eyes instead of looking at the map, and Bobby can see his face is pale as a sheet even in the dim lighting.
"Bobby," Dean whispers. The one word conveys everything Dean won't voice, and Bobby chances a glance back at Sam. He's still small enough to fit into the backseat, just barely. He's all long limbs and fluffy hair, like a newborn moose. Even at fourteen, years after John had started dragging him along, Bobby hated to see him on a hunt. He'd tried to talk John out of sending the boys alone, but the Winchesters had never been known for their reason. So Bobby had stayed close, hoping that they wouldn't need his help but somehow knowing they would.
Sam looks as bad as he did when they carried him out of the graveyard, but Bobby can't truly be sure how serious it is until they get him home. Sam's in and out of consciousness, grimacing and groaning at the pain in his head. There's blood – too much blood for comfort - trailing down his temple from where he was thrown into a gravestone, and Sam's pallor is even worse than Dean's.
"Just hold on, son," Bobby mutters, to one or both of the boys. He presses the accelerator down and drives home as fast as he can manage safely. Dean abandons all pretense of looking at the map and just keeps staring at his brother, undoubtedly watching his chest rise and fall. Bobby knows that torture all too well, but he also knows that nothing will make Dean snap out of it at this point.
They make it to Bobby's home and then he and Dean are flying out of the car and rushing to Sam. Dean shakes his shoulder, gently at first, then harder. Sam stirs, fluttering open glossy eyes and looking around in confusion.
"Think you can walk?" Bobby asks, but Dean is already yanking Sam into his arms and heading for the front door. Sam's not even putting up an attempt at fussing about it, and the worry burns hot in Bobby's gut. John's youngest is all sass and independence, always complaining that Dean treats him like a baby. But now he's just limp and silent.
Bobby gets ahead of Dean to open the door, and follows him into the living room. Dean rushes in and lowers Sam onto the couch before immediately kneeling next to him. Sam's already flinching at the light, even though there's only a couple of lamps on in the room. The poor kid has dealt with migraines since he was little, and this latest knock to the head is probably spiking another one.
"We'll turn the lights off after we make sure you're okay, Sam," Bobby reassures him. He almost orders Dean to go get the med kit and a wet rag, but stops at the look on his face. If it helps the kid to be glued to his brother's side – and it always does – then so be it.
"C'mon, Sammy. Eyes open," Dean is saying as Bobby comes back into the room. He's got that gruff twang in his voice, that tone that he uses when he's trying to act like he's not the scared kid he is. That attempt at sounding like his father that will always sound hollow, as much as he tries to make it commanding.
Sam is squinting again at the light when Bobby comes over and kneels next to Dean. The bleeding seems to be slowing down, and when Dean takes the rag and cleans off Sam's face, they can see that the wound isn't life-threatening. Bobby checks Sam's pupils, and Dean watches like a hawk as they respond appropriately to the light. His eyes track Bobby without issue, but when Dean holds up two fingers Sam thinks it's four. Before any more color can leech out of Dean's face, Bobby reminds him that blurry vision can happen with a concussion, especially a gnarly one like it seems this is. Dean pretends he remembered that, and starts to reach for the needle and thread Bobby has pulled out to close the head wound.
Bobby tries to keep the look of shock off his face. There may be a world where this boy has to stitch up his little brother's wounds, but it's not the world they're living in tonight. Not here, not now, safe in this cluttered house with the only man who can get Dean to be a brother, not a parent, even for a night.
"I've got it, son," Bobby tells him, and Dean doesn't fight. He takes Sam's hand and squeezes tight, and Bobby can see the tremble in his hand. Then Sam flicks his gaze to Dean and rolls his eyes, and everything in the world is alright again.