A/N I swear that the average length of the chapters keeps getting longer and I don't know how that happens or why but I guess I'm not going to fight it.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you for everything!
Chapter Five
It wasn't infrequent for Bobby to be woken up at unreasonable hours by some emergency, but it had stopped being in relation to the Winchesters long ago.
Back then, near the end of his and John's frayed relationship, it felt like it had happened on an increasingly concerning basis. If it wasn't John needing him to watch the boys at the drop of the hat—whether at some run-down motel or his own home—then it was Dean or Sam calling him for help because they didn't know who else to go to. And when it wasn't one of those, then it was John calling him at all hours of the day for information about the supernatural or asking him to join in on a hunt. All that, and never a thank you from John, never an acknowledgment of how he was hurting Sam and Dean, or how he was inconveniencing Bobby.
And every damn time that it happened his frustration with John mounted until at last he snapped and told John in no uncertain terms to never darken his doorstep again.
Later that night, when he was alone with a bottle of whiskey, he guiltily reassured himself that maybe, just maybe, it was for the best. Maybe now that he didn't have Bobby to rely on, John would step up and change. Maybe when he realized all that Bobby had done for them, John might even apologize, and then they could start fresh.
Bobby should have known that it was nothing more than the whiskey talking. John Winchester was too damn stubborn to do something like apologize.
The days stretched on with no word from any of the Winchesters.
Bobby thought that he would be relieved to be free of the worry, of having to be on call at all times. He wasn't. If anything, his worry only increased when the calls stopped coming and he had no damn clue what was happening. It was enough to make him swallow his pride and he picked up the phone about a month after the incident and called John to see if they could work things out.
John never returned his call or his next one, and Bobby didn't try again.
The weeks turned into months, and then years, and Bobby convinced himself that he'd truly done what was best. Maybe John had stepped up and putting Bobby back into their life would just hamper that progress. Sam and Dean were better off without him, or at the very least they didn't seem to need him in their lives. He knew from the hunter grapevine that they were both alive and thriving—Sam, off to a high-end college while Dean became an increasingly respected and feared hunter in the community—and then they'd come knocking at his door, begging for help for their bastard of a father and the illusion that he'd created came crashing down.
Not only were they not thriving, but they were barely keeping their heads afloat.
The years had changed them, and they were different than the kids that he'd loved more than he could have even admitted to himself. There was more pain and less hope in their eyes, more grief and hardness, but beneath the scars, he could still see glimpses of those kids and he'd wanted to tell John all over again exactly what he thought of him. But he hadn't. He learned his lesson and instead, he told them to bring John around.
He never saw John alive again.
John went and got himself killed, leaving the boys alone and Bobby to pick up his slack one last time. Bobby had ushered them—grieving, hurt, and in shock—into his home without a second thought. Part of him—a part that he couldn't even vocalize because it might hurt too much—didn't want to see them leave again but he'd forgotten what solitary and wandering creatures the Winchesters were.
With no more than a night's notice, Sam and Dean had left and Bobby hadn't heard a word from them in the subsequent weeks, leaving him wondering once again if they were even alive.
It was like they had never come back at all.
Yet here they were, knocking on his door at some random godforsaken hour. Only, this time it was because they were on the run from the law and from demons and John wasn't even in the picture.
They looked like they had been through the wringer. Sam was barely conscious, in pain, and weak. Dean looked little better, with his hair frazzled and dark shadows rimming his eyes.
Sighing, Bobby looked between them.
"Tell me what happened and I'll take it from there," he said, trying to erase the desperate look from Dean's face.
"I—" Dean swallowed, glancing down at Sam and rubbing a hand over his face. "It's a long story, I'll fill you in later but let's just say that we tried to be good Samaritans first at a bank and then at a rest area. Sam got himself stabbed. Punctured his right lung in two different spots and he's been in the hospital for about three days. Spent a good chunk of it in the ICU too. He's pretty…it took a lot out of him and then I've been dragging him all across the country and—" Dean broke himself off, his jaw clenching.
Bobby arched an eyebrow, glancing back over at Sam, who lay limply on the cot, breathing unevenly. "And why the hell is he in my living room? Not that I'm not happy to see you boys or anything, but I don't exactly come equipped with an x-ray machine or fancy medical equipment."
Dean heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face, and if anything he looked more tired than he had a second ago. "That's where the FBI comes in," he said grimly even as he shifted from his kneeling position next to Sam to sitting flat as his brother made a small sound. He reached up, patting Sam's knee absently.
Bobby frowned, studying Sam intently before glancing back at Dean. Dean, who had no doubt made the best decision possible for Sam in what must have been an impossible circumstance.
"And when can the chest tube come out?" he asked.
Dean shook his head, lifting a hand in uncertainty. "I—Well, I don't have the x-rays to prove it, but Sam's doctor said that they probably would have been able to pull it out sometime yesterday. I had—I didn't just drag him out of the hospital with no plan. I had someone that we could go to, an army medic friend of Dad's, but that—the son of a bitch doubled crossed us. I think that we're just going to have to pull it ourselves. It's looking irritated and that can't be good. And Nevils did say that it could come out, I just—that seems—" Dean seemed lost for words as he ran a lightly trembling hand through his hair.
"Risky? Dangerous?" Bobby supplied.
"Yeah. That." Dean glanced back over at Sam, who was watching them both through slitted eyelids, and lowered his voice. "But I don't think that we have a choice. It's got to come out at some point. He can't just walk around with it in forever."
"And do you know how to do it?"
Dean stiffened. "Not exactly, no. But I'll do some research, I'll figure it out."
Dean had always been protective of his family and he had grown accustomed to seeing asking for help as a sign of personal failure. Not for the first time, Bobby cussed out John Winchester internally. He'd set that boy up to fail in more ways than Bobby could count.
Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his jaw. "John wasn't the only one who had friends in the medical field. Let me give someone a call and see if she won't be willing to walk us through how to do it or come down and pull it out herself."
Dean nodded non-committedly and Bobby eyed him out of the corner of his eye. Dean's clear exhaustion was not helping matters. "You look beat yourself. Go upstairs and get some sleep while I call Elizabeth. I'll keep an eye on Sam for you."
"No. I'll watch him," Dean said stubbornly even as he pulled off his jacket. He was wearing scrubs underneath and looked to be hosting some sort of fake tattoo, and Bobby knew that he was still only getting part of the story but he didn't push it. There would be plenty of time for that later after they got Sam taken care of and Dean slept.
"Are you sure? I can—"
"Bobby, thank you, but I'm fine. I'll watch him," Dean emphasized, shooting him a glare, and Bobby didn't try to argue again, holding up his hands in surrender.
"Yell if you need anything or if you change your mind. I'm going to go call Elizabeth."
Dean nodded shortly and Bobby disappeared, but not before he heard Sam give Dean what sounded like a quiet rebuke.
Stopping off briefly in the kitchen, he flipped on the coffee pot as he had a feeling that he was going to need caffeine sooner rather than later. He then began to rifle through his papers, looking for Elizabeth's number all while fighting the urge to go back into his living room.
From it, he could hear the quiet mummer of voices. As he dialed and then waited for the line to connect, he moved forward, standing in the doorway to the living room and silently observing them.
Dean had dragged himself up and was sitting on the edge of the cot, Bobby's first-aid kit now open. Sam's arm was draped over his face, but Bobby could faintly hear him answering whatever Dean had asked.
Bobby looked away, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment.
They had always been that way, just the two of them against the world. Even when Bobby had been closer to them, he hadn't been able to match the bond between them, even if he had played mentor between them more than once. He'd never seen any siblings as close as they were, but then again, most siblings hadn't endured what they had from such a young age either.
The line connected and Bobby turned his full attention to the phone. When he finished the conversation almost forty minutes later, he was more hopeful than he had been before.
Stopping first by the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, he returned to the living room.
The sounds of voices had died down and he found Sam sleeping fitfully and Dean dozing, his head on the side of the cot and his hand wrapped around Sam's wrist to monitor his condition. They both looked so young and Bobby's heart clenched.
Neither of them deserved what life had thrown at them. They were both too good of men to have the haggard look of the damned.
Taking a long swallow of the coffee, Bobby set the mug down on the mantel and wasn't surprised when Dean immediately snapped awake at the clink. Straightening, he ran a hand back through his hair, looking around.
"Just me," Bobby said as he dragged the nearby sturdy coffee table closer to the cot and then sat on it.
Dean yawned widely, scrubbing a hand over his eyes roughly and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What—ah, what did your friend have to say?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep.
"Elizabeth had mostly good news, actually," Bobby said, clasping his hands in front of him and looking Dean in the eye. He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Sam just yet. "She did say, though, that she doesn't recommend for us to pull it out without x-rays first, just to ensure that all the fluid and air has completely drained from his lung."
"Not an option. I can't—I'm not dragging him to a hospital again just to run up against some dude with his head in his ass who thinks that we need to be arrested. We just got out of that situation," Dean said pointedly.
Bobby smiled grimly. "I told her that, along with the fact that Sam's doctor thought that it was ready to be pulled. She didn't seem thrilled with the idea, but she didn't issue too many dire warnings either. As for the actual removal of the tube itself, it's not actually that difficult. We have everything we need here—except the x-rays, of course—and Sam probably won't need any additional stitches."
Dean frowned, laying his head back against the cot as he regarded Sam. "Really? I mean, that's good, but…" he trailed off, looking hesitant.
Bobby opened his mouth to voice his opinion before changing his mind and reaching for the coffee instead. He took a long sip, allowing Dean a chance to make the decision, but when he didn't say anything, he hedged, "We don't have to go through with it right now. We can wait and see if Elizabeth would be willing to make the trip."
Dean heaved a sigh that had the weight of the world in it lifted his head and knelt upright. Tugging the blankets down from Sam's shoulders, he pulled up his loose shirt, exposing the bandages. Sam made a small sound of discomfort and Dean shhed him softly.
"Look at this," he said, nodding Bobby over. He stood, leaning over Dean's shoulder as he carefully peeled back the bandage covering the tube. The skin was red and irritated and Bobby grimaced.
"Yeah. That could look better," he admitted. "How are the stab wounds themselves looking? Could we be dealing with an infection?" Dean smoothed the bandage back down and gently peeled the second bandage up. Two rows of neat stitches met Bobby's eyes and he leaned in closer, examining the bruised skin for any signs of infection or irritation.
There didn't appear to be any and he sat back, thinking. "Yeah, we should probably pull it out. If he starts to have issues with breathing then I'll pull some favors. I'll get it worked out."
Standing, Bobby began to gather up the necessary supplies. "Wake him up, we need him conscious."
Dean smoothed the bandage back even as he made a face. "That's just going to make his day," he muttered under his breath, before grabbing Sam's shoulder and shaking him. "Sammy, hey…c'mon. You gotta rise and shine."
Bobby began to lay out the supplies on the coffee table. It really wasn't much, but he hadn't been lying when he told Dean that the procedure was fairly simple. Twisting open a bottle of ointment, Bobby began to spread some out on a fresh bandage.
"What?" Sam mumbled thickly, not opening his eyes.
"Bobby wants to pull the tube out. Needs you awake," Dean said and that got Sam's attention, his eyes flashing open.
"Seriously?" he asked, looking between Dean and Bobby, and damn if there wasn't anything but trust in his eyes when he looked at his brother. It had been that way when they'd been kids as well, Sam willing to follow his brother to the moon and back.
"Yeah. Bobby talked to a doctor friend of his and she said that it would be fine," Dean paraphrased as Bobby finished the last of his preparations. Digging through his first-aid kit, Bobby pulled out a single shot of morphine. Sam probably didn't really need it, but there was no reason for him to be in pain and it would allow him the rest he desperately needed.
He began to swab at the skin on Sam's upper arm with an alcohol wipe and Dean reached over, plucking the shot from him. Giving Sam only a look in warning, Dean inserted the needle and then dispensed its contents.
"Sam, son, I'm going to need you more on your side. You think that you can manage that?" Bobby asked as he pulled on a pair of gloves.
"Yeah," Sam grunted, watching as Dean recapped the needle and then tossed it towards the trash. "I didn't need that." They both ignored him as Dean grabbed his arm, helping him to roll over so that Bobby had full access.
Bobby took a deep breath, giving himself just a moment to prepare. He could do this, he had performed much more complex medical procedures before.
"Alright," he began slowly, talking them all through the process. Dean in particular looked white in the face as he braced Sam's shoulder. "This is going to be quick and easy. I'm just going to cut the stitches holding the tube in, and—this is important, Sam—you're going to hold your breath while I pull the tube out. Then we're done. The whole procedure shouldn't even be three minutes."
"That easy?" Dean asked suspiciously.
Bobby nodded. "That easy."
Giving Sam a confident smile, he accepted the small scissors from Dean and proceeded to cut through a couple of stitches holding the tube in place. "Sam—" Was all he had to say for Sam to suck in as deep of a breath as he could and hold it. With more confidence than Bobby felt, he gently but firmly tugged the tube out. It came free with a little resistance if an unpleasant popping sound and then Bobby was tossing it aside and applying the prepared bandage.
Dean looked up at him, expecting more and Bobby shrugged as he began to tape down the already prepared bandages. "Told you it wasn't complicated."
"If I had known it was that easy, I would have pulled it out yesterday," Dean muttered, helping Sam to roll onto his back once again. He let his hand rest on Sam's shoulder, searching his face intently.
"How do you feel? And don't screw with me. Tell me only the truth," he said forcefully as Bobby stood and began to gather up the tubing, stuffing it into a sealed plastic bag that would be tossed in the trash to be burned later. He paused, listening for Sam's response.
Sam took a shallow breath. "Tired. And weak. Breathing still hurts like a bitch but it's not difficult. It doesn't—it feels the same."
Bobby's shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes. Thank God. When he looked over, Dean's head had dropped in relief as well and Bobby could see him taking a deep breath.
"I'll take that. But you have to let me know if that changes. The instant something feels off, okay?"
Sam nodded, blinking owlishly as he shifted, trying to get more comfortable with a wince. Dean tugged Sam's shirt back down over the bandages and then reached up, smoothing back his hair. "You need anything else?"
"No, I just want to sleep," Sam insisted, sounding already half there.
"Dude, you deserve it. I've got this watch, okay?"
Bobby watched from the sidelines as Sam dragged his arm out, clasping Dean's.
Part of Bobby wanted to stay, part of him felt like he should leave. He didn't know where he stood in their lives at the moment and, after a brief hesitation, he left, taking the bag and the machine with him.
It was just starting to get light out as he crossed over to his burn barrel and dumped both in. Taking a moment, he breathed in the cold air, watching his breath plume around him.
The immediate crisis was over, at least for the moment, and part of him wouldn't be surprised if by the next morning or the day after the boys were gone, even if Sam still wasn't feeling great.
They probably wouldn't even stay a week.
Bobby didn't want that. He was so tired of being alone, of having no one around. He'd been alone for so long after Karen had passed and then those boys had come into his life only for them to disappear, leaving him lonelier than ever. Oh, he had friends and acquaintances, but no one that he was really close to, not beyond Rufus and it wasn't like he and Rufus were hanging out for afternoon tea.
Bobby was just tired of being alone and he had a feeling that the Winchesters were as well.
Sam was sound asleep again by the time Bobby returned to the living room and Dean looked to be mere minutes away as well. His head was once again resting on the cot, his eyes heavy.
"You know, I can watch him if you want," Bobby hedged tentatively, breaking the silence and making Dean start. He looked over and then shook his head while covering a yawn.
"Nah. I've got it."
Bobby opened his mouth to debate that before thinking better of it and switching his question. "Two or three eggs?" he asked, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen.
He turned at the door and raised an eyebrow as he watched the gears turn in Dean's brain as he tried to figure out what Bobby was asking him.
"For breakfast. Two eggs or three?" he repeated and Dean made a self-reprimanding face.
"Two," he called back and Bobby nodded, disappearing into the kitchen.
It was a simple breakfast, only consisting of eggs and toast, but that was all that they needed. Bringing it into the living room, he set a full plate for Dean on the coffee table and then disappeared back into the kitchen for just a moment, coming back with a bottle of whiskey.
"It's five o'clock somewhere, right?" he said with a tired grin and Dean accepted the tumbler full that he passed over.
"Thanks," he muttered, exhaustion coating his every move as he knocked back the whiskey and then dug into the food. Bobby worked on his own plate, giving Dean sideways glances.
He was about halfway done when Bobby cleared his throat, making him look up. "You wanna tell me the full story now?" he asked and Dean slowed even further, glancing back over at Sam.
"Not really," he said and Bobby arched an eyebrow.
"Boy, I just let you into my house with the possibility of the FBI coming after you. I think that you've got some explaining to do."
Dean quirked a smile. "Fair enough," he said, before launching into the story, starting with a shapeshifter in Milwaukee.
Bobby listened intently as the hunt for the shapeshifter turned into a bank robbery gone wrong. To an Agent Henriksen showing up and the revelation that the FBI was chasing the Winchesters, then to the rest area and the subsequent hospital stay. To Burkhart double-crossing them and the long hours that they'd spent in the car, Dean not knowing where to go and Sam in pain.
In the end, Bobby shouldn't have been surprised. The Winchesters drew trouble like nothing else that he had ever seen.
Wiping at the back of his mouth, he picked up the whiskey.
"You boys have gotten yourself into quite the pickle this time. First the yellow-eyed demon and now the FBI? You sure do know how to pick 'em."
"It's not like we're trying," Dean said petulantly, making Bobby smile.
"Well," he said, reaching over and refilling Dean's tumbler, "It'll work out. The FBI will get tired of chasing you before long and we'll face down the demon together when it happens."
"I don't know," Dean said slowly and Bobby looked up sharply, studying Dean more intently. "You should have heard the way that Henriksen was talking about us at that bank. He knew everything—well, not everything. I don't think we would be in his sights if he knew that it was shifter robbing the bank or what we do. He'd be more concerned about that. But he knew too much about our personal lives to make me comfortable. He wants us, and he's not going to drop it anytime soon."
"He might not," Bobby reasoned, "But other authorities and his upper management will. Without them, he ain't going to be able to do much and you'll get right back to hunting soon enough."
"Sam doesn't think so," Dean admitted, turning the glass over and over in his fingers, his face creased with more worries than he had the right to. "He was—Sam doesn't like this, at all. You know how he gets and this…this is freaking him out." He was silent for a split second, glancing up at Bobby before admitting, "freaking me out a little too."
Bobby sighed, rubbing at his chin as he tried to figure out what to say. Sam had always been a little less prone to breaking the law than his father or brother, not unless it involved getting one of them out of a scrape.
"Sam will come around. He's resilient. And as for you, I'm sure that not sleepin' has done wonders on your outlook of the future," he said at last and Dean snorted, setting the whiskey tumbler aside but not disagreeing. He looked back at Sam, no longer meeting Bobby's eyes.
"Dean," he said firmly, leaning forward. "We don't have to worry about the FBI right now, that can be a worry for later. Right now, we've got to think about you two. I can and will watch Sam, but you've got to get some sleep. You're too tired to effectively care for him, you're going to doze off."
Dean doggedly shook his head but when he opened his mouth to no doubt tell Bobby off, he couldn't stifle a yawn. It was enough, and the determination faded as he rubbed at his eyes.
"Maybe you're right," he said grudgingly, looking back at his brother.
"Damn right, I am. Go upstairs, and get some sleep. I know what to keep an eye out for. I've got him."
"After everything you just did for us—that you have done for us recently—I'm not going to ask you to play babysitter," Dean said and Bobby rolled his eyes.
Damn idjit.
"You're not asking, I'm volunteering, you stubborn son of a bitch. Go upstairs, and get some sleep. Come back down once you can see straight."
Dean spluttered a laugh and reached out for the bottle. Taking a drink straight from it, he then used it to gesture at Bobby. "Fine. Fine, I'll sleep, but I'm not going upstairs. The couch works just fine."
Bobby shrugged. "My casa su casa," he said, pointing at the lumpy and old piece of furniture. Dean needed no further direction. Getting up with a low groan, he shuffled over and then, toeing off his boots, collapsed onto the couch. Only moments later, he began to snore softly.
Sighing, Bobby pushed himself up and began to gather up dishes before sticking them haphazardly on the kitchen table. He'd worry about washing them later, they'd keep just fine. Stopping in the study to pick up a book, he returned to the living room.
Setting the book down, he bent over Sam and pressed a hand against his cheek. He was warmer than he should have been and Bobby frowned. He'd keep an eye on the fever but for now, it wasn't alarming. His breathing seemed level and his pulse was normal.
Satisfied that Sam was alright for the moment, he settled down on the coffee table. It wasn't the most comfortable position ever, but it was the best one to watch Sam and Dean from and he cracked open the book.
He didn't start reading immediately, though, his gaze flicking between Sam and Dean.
Both were asleep and likely to remain that way for the next several hours. They were roughed up, but his boys would be okay.
His boys.
It was something that Bobby had only allowed himself to think privately and not without a smattering of guilt. He had never been cut out to be a parent, and he'd firmly believed it when he'd told Karen that he didn't want kids but Sam and Dean had needed someone. John sure as hell hadn't stepped up to the plate all that frequently and they had been kids.
Now they were adults. Adults with what felt like the whole world turned against them. They were completely alone, with only each other to rely upon.
He feared that the pressure would crush them eventually.
Rubbing a hand over his beard, Bobby finally turned to his book although his attention remained attuned to both of them.
#
Someone lifting Sam's head and shoulders snapped him out of the deep sleep and his hand flew out, pushing against whoever it was.
"Easy, Sam. Just propping you up a little bit." The voice was gruff and low—not Dean—and it took Sam several seconds longer than he would have liked to place who it was through the haze of sleep.
Bobby.
They were at Bobby's and they were safe.
He let go of his grip on Bobby's shirt and Bobby went back to helping him lean up against the pillows that he had stacked behind his back, propping him up. Sunlight streamed into the living room, a vast difference from the darkness earlier.
"That should help with your breathing. Make it easier," Bobby explained in a hushed tone and Sam nodded even as he worked through the pain of moving. The morphine that Dean had given him earlier had worn off and he was once again feeling every injured muscle in his body.
"Where's Dean?" he croaked out and he swallowed thickly. His mouth felt dry and chalky, probably from the drugs, possibly dehydration.
"On the couch beside you. He's fine, just sleeping," Bobby said, tapping Sam's arm lightly. Sam couldn't lift his head very high, but he shifted slowly until he could see Dean's legs and hear his heavy breathing.
"Good," he said, matching Bobby's quiet tone as he dragged his hand up and wrapped it around his chest, bracing against the worst of the pain. God, he was so tired of feeling sick all the time. He'd felt better in the hospital than he did now.
Bobby bent over, digging through the first aid kit before holding out a couple of oblong pills. "Getting stabbed is a bitch, isn't it? I can give you another shot of morphine if you want, but—"
"Those will do." Sam wanted to be off the heavier drugs if possible. He didn't like being so out of it, and he had been all but useless to Dean recently.
His hand was shaking as he took the pills from Bobby and it was more frustrating than he wanted to admit. Bobby passed over a glass of water to wash the pills down with and he sipped at it. His stomach churned unhappily and he handed the cup back to Bobby with a shake of his head.
"Might come back up," he admitted, shifting again and trying to find a more comfortable position but everything hurt and it felt like his skin was overly sensitive.
"You're not on an IV and dehydration is the last problem that you want to have. Drink some more," Bobby pushed and Sam made a face. He really didn't think he could.
"Sam…" Bobby pushed again, holding the cup up. Sam closed his eyes, swallowing thickly, but reached out for the cup. He took it, managed another sip and his stomach rolled precariously. Shaking his head, he passed it back and Bobby raised his eyebrow.
"Do you want me to start you on an IV? I can."
Sam shook his head, shifting deeper into the pillows and blankets. He didn't want Bobby to waste his supplies like that.
Bobby's lips thinned. "Your fever is higher and I know that you don't feel great. Some more water and maybe some food while we are at it will help."
Sam raised a hand, digging his thumb into his temple. "Ah, Dean made me eat some applesauce yesterday so I'm fine," he said and winced as he took a deeper breath and the hovering pain bit harder forcing him back to shallower intakes. It left him feeling lightheaded and faintly dizzy, although that might have to do with the fever.
"Yesterday was several hours ago at this point, Sam. I'll be right back." Bobby stood to leave and then Sam reached out, letting his arm fall against Bobby's.
"The FBI? They haven't shown up, have they?" he asked worriedly and Bobby shook his head.
"Not even a peep from them. I've been keeping an eye on things here and in St. Louis so don't you worry about it. I've got it all under control." He smiled at him and patted his shoulder before he left.
Sam rolled his head to the side, trying to get a better view of Dean.
His brother continued to sleep and Sam watched him carefully. Dean looked tired but good, and that was what was important.
Dropping his arm lower, he wrapped it around his stomach rather than his chest to help combat the nausea. He was fine, it wasn't to the point yet that he felt like throwing up, but it could get there if he wasn't careful. Food wasn't going to help, but he didn't know how to tell Bobby no when he reappeared with a faintly steaming mug.
"I've had it on low so that it could be ready to go," Bobby said, passing the mug over.
Sam nodded, using both hands to hold the mug as his arm shook. Bobby looked like he wanted to steady him, and Sam shot him a glare that had him backing off.
It was just broth, but Sam tried to not breathe through his nose as he took a tentative sip. It tasted good, but he knew it wasn't sitting well and he handed it back after only a few mouthfuls.
Bobby was looking at him worriedly and Sam offered him a smile. "Thank you, it's—I'll have more in a little bit. And sorry about this."
"About what?" Bobby asked in what sounded like genuine surprise as he sat the mug aside and then sank down onto the coffee table.
Sam shrugged a little. "For this. For maybe bringing the cops down on you. For showing up on your doorstep again, one of us half-dead and in trouble."
"Well, you don't always have to come over half-dead or in trouble, you know. I don't even have to be the last resort. You boys are free to drop by anytime," Bobby said with a hesitant smile. "I'll even keep the latest issues of Superman and Batman around again."
It made Sam smile nostalgically despite how lousy he was feeling. "You know, I think that was the only thing that I saw Dean read regularly and enjoy? He kept reading those comic books even after I learned how to read for myself. I guess we may keep showing up on your porch, but at least we aren't snot-nosed kids anymore."
Bobby got a faraway look in his eyes before he straightened, chuckling. "You two little rugrats were a pain in my ass," he said, but it was said so fondly that it couldn't be mistaken for anything but that.
It surprised Sam a little, actually. He knew that he and Dean hadn't been easy kids. God only knew that John had told them to stow the act and behave enough times to drill it into their heads. The last time they had been here couldn't have been easy either. They had both been so deep in grief for John that they hadn't been able to see much else.
Bobby chuckled again, clearly remembering past times. "You boys were real good kids. I mean don't get me wrong, you both knew how to drive me up a wall and back down it again, but you were good kids."
"Right, so that time that I drew all over that ancient transcript counted as easy or good? Or what about the time that we decided to try and build sandcastles with flour all over your kitchen floor?" Sam asked with thick disbelief and Bobby waved it away.
"You weren't perfect. You were a kid."
Sam huffed and then brought a hand up, pressing the oxygen tube back into place and sucking in a deep breath.
Bobby cut the conversation short as he reached out, patting Sam's shoulder. "Get some more sleep. We'll talk more when you wake up."
Sam thought about fighting it but his body was on board with Bobby's plan.
"Thanks again for everything," he said as he closed his eyes. As soon as he did, it became apparent that they weren't going to open again without a lot of effort.
He didn't quite make out Bobby's reply and didn't try, letting the darkness claim him.
When he woke sometime later, his stomach was churning and already pushing its contents up and out of his throat.
He barely had time to roll over before he was gagging hard.
There were the sounds of a panicked scramble and then someone was exclaiming, "Woah, woah, woah," as he was bodily hefted up by the shoulders. It was just in time too as he puked up what little he had in his stomach into the trashcan that Bobby had summoned from seemingly out of nowhere.
The vomit burned and Sam lurched forward again, spluttering out a mouthful even as Bobby braced him with an arm around his chest while bringing the trashcan closer.
There was a flurry of movement next to him and then who could only be Dean was grabbing for his arm even as he dug the oxygen tube out from underneath Sam's nose. Pulling it off and over his head, Dean tossed it aside and then began to pull his hair back.
It was probably a smart move as Sam bent forward again, heaving for all that he was worth and his mouth and nose began to burn from the acidic vomit.
He was shaking badly when at last he finished and Bobby gently lowered him back onto the cot. Dean was watching him worriedly from where he was crouched next to him.
"You done?" Dean asked, combing Sam's damp hair back and searching his face.
"Mmm, yeah. I—yeah, I think so." He swallowed hard, trying to rid himself of the taste.
"I'll grab some water," Bobby muttered, grabbing the trashcan and taking it with him. Sam closed his eyes, sinking into the pillows and trying to breathe through the remaining nausea. Maybe Bobby should have left the trashcan behind…
Dean stood and then looked around before heading into the kitchen. He returned with a roll of paper towels. Ripping a couple of pieces off, he handed them to Sam. "Here, clean yourself up."
Sam took them, swallowing thickly again, but wiped at his face. Once he was done, Dean reached over, fixing the nasal cannula back under his nose.
"Dude, that wasn't the way that I wanted to get woken up," he grossed lightly as Bobby reappeared, a glass of water in one hand and the trashcan with a fresh liner in the other.
Sam accepted the glass, swishing and spitting to get rid of the taste, but he didn't dare drink any of it.
"Sorry," he said thickly, deeply regrating the little bit of food he had eaten earlier.
"Don't worry about it. Your body's been through hell the last couple of days. I'm surprised you didn't upchuck earlier," Dean said, taking the glass and pressing the back of his hand against Sam's cheek and then his forehead.
"Hey, Bobby. You wanna bring us a cold cloth?" he asked casually over his shoulder and Bobby disappeared again. He came back a moment later, handing Dean a damp cloth which he folded up and laid against Sam's forehead.
The coldness was a relief and Sam leaned into it.
"You know," Bobby began, "you're probably dehydrated and that can't be doing anything good for you. I can jury an IV line if you want, get you started on some fluids."
Sam opened his mouth to say no again but Dean was already turning to look over his shoulder and saying, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."
"I just need to rest," Sam insisted and Dean turned his attention back to Sam.
"Dude, I don't know how much you remember, but it was pretty touch and go for a while in the hospital. And then I pulled you out, and it wasn't exactly easy on you. Let us help you and allow yourself to feel like crap for a little bit."
"Because that's always my goal. To feel like crap."
Dean snorted in faint amusement even as he patted his chest. "That's why the IV is going to help. But besides the nausea is everything okay still? Are you having any trouble breathing?"
"No, I'm fine. Really."
His brother pursed his lips in disbelief. "Do you need more water or some ice cubes? The ice might help."
Sam's stomach rolled again and he quickly shook his head. "No. Thank you, though."
"No need to thank me," Dean said, and then to Sam's surprise a smile broke out on his face as he twisted back to look at Bobby. "Do you know what Sam said when we were in the middle of that robbery, when he was negotiating with the cops outside?"
Bobby raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
Dean's smirk grew and he playfully poked Sam's shoulder. "Sam kept saying please and thank you. He was the politest bank robber they probably ever met."
Sam glowered at his brother and would have hit him if he had been closer or if had he been feeling better. "You know, you can stow it," he mumbled, shifting back further into the pillows and trying to settle his body. Dean laughed even as he reached out, flipping the cloth over to the cooler side and pressing it against the back of his neck.
Bobby snorted out his own sound of amusement and Sam looked up to see Bobby shaking his head.
"You two are idjits, you know that right?"
Sam huffed a laugh and closed his eyes as his stomach churned tightly again. "I was stressed, okay? I'd never been part of a robbery before," he defended himself.
"And your version of stress leads to you being more polite?" Dean questioned and Sam still had the energy to raise his middle finger in Dean's direction.
"Bobby, did you see the fake tattoo Dean has yet?" he teased weakly in return. Dean's glower made it worth it. "He spent all of our cash on it."
"I was doing it for you, jackass," Dean spluttered.
"How much did you pay for it?" Bobby asked in amusement and Dean shrugged.
"I dunno. Five hundred I think? Most of the cash I had."
"Five hundred for that? Boy, you got ripped off. They probably would have been willing to do it for half of that."
Sam was still miserable but he managed a laugh even as it made his side ache even more. He curled forward and Dean slapped him lightly on his shoulder in rebuke.
"Stop laughing before you stop breathing."
The laughter was a welcome respite from the last few days of stress but it also sapped what little strength he had left. Groaning softly, he closed his eyes, the nausea and pain taking over again. Dean softened his touch, pulling the blankets up instead as Bobby left to find the supplies for an IV.
Dean tightened his grip on Sam's arm, leaning forward a little and offering him a smile.
"It's all going to be okay, Sammy, I promise. You'll feel better in a couple of days."
Sam hummed out an agreement, draping his arm back over his eyes. He felt lousy but he and Dean were safe and weren't on the run so he was content for the moment.
#
Dean was grateful for the several hours of sleep that he'd gotten before Sam's condition worsened. The sleep had left him feeling more energized than he'd felt in days and he nursed Sam through the next couple of hours. The nausea wasn't abating and the fever was remaining steady.
They theorized that dehydration and stress were the reason for the decline. Sam's body was simply reacting to all that he had been through in the last several days and until the deterioration became dangerous, they were going to wait it out. They were hopeful that the IV would do most of the work. At the very least, it would fix the dehydration and provide stronger medication that Sam couldn't bring back up. His oxygen levels, thankfully, remained in an acceptable range.
Currently, Sam was curled up on his side and sleeping fitfully. He was shivering and Dean had to resist the urge to go find more blankets. Instead, he settled for tucking the quilt in tighter around him.
He was checking Sam's fever for what felt like the umpteenth time when Bobby reappeared at the doorway and leaned against the frame. He'd left for about an hour when his phone had started to ring and hadn't reappeared until now.
"He asleep?" Bobby asked after a moment, looking tired and drawn as well. It was getting dark again and he'd been up since early that morning and Dean felt momentarily bad.
"He's been in and out, but yeah. For the moment he's asleep."
Bobby was silent, looking at the scene in front of him before pushing off the door. "Gonna be a long couple of hours. Wanna a beer?"
Dean flipped his wrist around so that he could check his watch. It was a little past six in the evening and some distraction wouldn't hurt.
"Might as well," he said with a shrug and Bobby nodded, leaving again to return with a six-pack and a deck of cards.
"If you're interested," he said, holding up the cards, and Dean nodded. He began to clear off the coffee table, stacking the medical supplies off to the side but within easy reach. Bobby dumped out the cards and began to straighten them. "I figured that we'd play poker, but I have Uno too, if you get a hankering for it."
"Nah. Uno is more of Sam's thing," Dean said with a smile, glancing back at his brother to make sure that he was still sleeping.
"I don't know. I remember some pretty heated games of Uno when you were a kid. I also seem to remember you somehow managing to win more than your fair share of the games."
"Gotta plan the finer rules of the game, Bobby. Dad taught me that."
"Yeah, and it worked for you until that time that Sam finally had enough and socked you right in the face for cheating."
Dean stared at him for a second before throwing back his head and laughing. "I'd forgotten about that! Damn, that kid knew how to throw a mean left hook when he wanted to. He always was a stubborn bastard, especially if he felt justified in it."
Dean took the cards from Bobby and began to shuffle them. He was focused on that while also listening for Sam so he was completely unprepared for Bobby's next question.
"Stubborn enough to go off to Stanford by himself?"
Dean fumbled the cards and they went all over the table. He began to gather them up slowly, not looking at Bobby. "Yeah. He was a stubborn and selfish son of a bitch," he finally said once he was holding the whole deck again. He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. Bobby's eyes were narrowed when Dean looked up and he focused on the cards again.
Bobby didn't get to judge that. He didn't understand what had happened, how horrible those years had been. Hell, they were some of the worst of his life, only rivaled by the faded memories of the months right after the fire that had killed his mom and then the last few months with Dad being…dead.
"I'm guessing it didn't go over too well with your daddy, then?" Bobby asked and Dean shook his head, not liking at all the territory where this was headed.
"You could say that. But I don't—That was a long time ago, Bobby. It doesn't matter anymore. Sam is back in the life, and he's left that behind." Mostly. It hadn't been that long ago that Sam had talked about going back to school with hope in his eyes, the same hope that was going to suffocate Dean.
Bobby nodded passing over a bottle of beer in a silent apology. Dean accepted it and dealt the hand. He thought that Bobby was done and ready to leave it alone, but he was proved wrong when, on their second round, Bobby spoke again.
"You did some pretty impressive hunts yourself those years, didn't you? I remember hearing about how you took down a whole pack of werewolves in Maine."
A flutter of pride went through Dean. "You heard about that?" he asked, looking up, and Bobby made a face as he took a drink.
"Boy, everyone heard about that. It was the talk of the hunting community. I mean, I didn't think that anyone would be that dumb to try and do it alone, but I wasn't surprised that you had succeeded."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean said, flattered.
Bobby waited only a couple of seconds before asking his next question in a tone that Dean was sure he thought was causal. "And where was John when that was going down?"
Dean's heart clenched at John's mention and he picked up his beer again, taking a deep swallow to give himself some time. "I don't know," he said, not trying to hide the fact but also not really wanting to bring attention to it. "He was off on some other hunt." John had disappeared a lot back then, leaving Dean alone to do whatever the hell he wanted.
It hadn't been freedom at all.
Dean hadn't known what to do besides hunt. He'd always had his family around to guide him and John to tell him what to do. The hunt was the only thing that he had known. It had been…hard was putting it lightly. He had never felt that alone in his whole life. Even facing John's death now, he didn't feel that alone. He had Sam, and Sam made up for a lot even when Dean couldn't tell him that.
Bobby played a card, glanced over at Dean, and back down at his cards. He looked to be working up to something and Dean was about to ask him to just spit it out when he spoke again.
"You know, you would have been welcome to come back here, back then. I would have given you a home base and hunts. I was giving other people hunts."
"Yeah," Dean scoffed out a laugh, his focus not really on the cards. "Well, you made it pretty clear that you didn't want us around anymore. That shotgun wasn't loaded with confetti."
"I made it clear that I didn't want John here anymore. You boys were always welcome. I thought…I hoped that you knew that. But maybe I was wrong in that."
Dean sighed and set his cards down. He wasn't interested in playing. If they were going to have this discussion then they might as well have it. "I—You had to know that we would go with Dad. That we had to choose him. He was our Dad," he said plainly. Bobby didn't say anything and Dean threw up his hands, exasperated. "What did happen anyway? Between you and Dad? I know that things were never exactly easy between the two of you, but he trusted you with hunting information and with us for all of those years. I knew that you guys were fighting more and more, but I didn't know how to fix it and then…and then something happened and I don't know what but you pumped that shotgun like you meant it."
Bobby was quiet for a long time, nursing his beer. Finally, he also set his cards down and rubbed both hands over his face. "I was an idiot," he muttered in a tone that Dean had never heard him use before. It almost sounded like regret, but Bobby did everything with confidence and a sure attitude. There wasn't time for regret. He scrubbed his hands over his beard and shook his head. "I—You're not a kid anymore, Dean."
"I never really was," Dean said pointedly.
"No. No, you weren't, though damn if I didn't try to let you be. But despite all that, you were still a kid and there were some things that you probably didn't understand."
"Like what?" Dean repeated more forcibly and winced when Sam made a sound behind him. He twisted, ready to grab the trashcan in case Sam was going to start throwing up again but his brother just shifted, moaning out something as his eyes moved under his lids.
"Be right back," Dean said, rising and moving to change the now room-temperature washcloths for cold ones.
"His temperature higher?" Bobby asked when Dean reluctantly moved to sit next to him again and he shook his head.
"About the same."
"Give it a couple more hours. If it isn't better by then, I'll call Elizabeth again and see what she recommends. She might even be able to make a trip down here."
"She'd be willing to do that?"
Bobby shrugged. "She owes me a favor or two. She'd be willing to."
After all Bobby had done, why would he be cashing in favors for them? They owed him.
Dean didn't understand and it was starting to get to him. Sure, Bobby was an old friend but Sam and Dean had done nothing for him. If anything they'd only been trouble.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked bluntly. Bobby seemed surprised and looked up.
"Doing what?"
"Helping us! We've…Bobby, last time we were here I was out of my head with grief. I destroyed some of your cars. The time before that we brought a literal demon down on you and you had to bury a body. That's not even to mention that this time, the FBI could come knocking down your damn door. You could go to jail. We are trouble, so why are you bending over backward to help us out? We are so deep into favors that we owe you by now that you are going to be cashing them in for the rest of our probably short lives."
Dean honestly didn't get it.
For a moment Bobby looked every inch his age and he sat back, playing with the bottle. "I…family don't owe each other favors, Dean."
"We haven't been family, not really. Not for a long time," Dean pressed, searching Bobby's crestfallen face.
Bobby sighed. "I know. And I know that I'm to blame for that. How do I explain…." He shook his head before leaning forward and looking Dean square in the eye. "I did know when I pulled that shotgun that you would follow your Daddy to hell and back. That you would choose him over me, even if I wanted to believe that you might not. And I knew that Sam would follow you in a heartbeat, even if he might not John. I knew that I was losing you both, but I thought it would be temporary. I never realized that I wouldn't see either of you again for so long, that I would be scavenging for news of you through the hunter grapevine. Or that…" Bobby paused here, working on something before he finally said, "or that I would miss you both as much as I did."
Dean didn't know how to touch that last part and focused on the first. "Dad never did forgive lightly," he said, addressing and Bobby raised his bottle, tilting in Dean's direction.
"Ain't that the truth."
"What caused that last fight? Because let me tell you, that was the worst part. I didn't even know why we had to cut you out." Dean had never admitted that out loud before, not even to Sam when Sam had tried to ask him about it all those years ago. He couldn't think back about the day that they'd driven away from Bobby's because it had been too painful. He'd been sure that he was never going to see Bobby again, never be able to come back to Singer Salvage.
"It wasn't just one thing. That fight, that was just the tip of the iceberg," Bobby began slowly. "Just…try and look at it from my point of view, Dean. I know—well, I'm not always good at this, so—look, I was frustrated with John and I felt like he wasn't listening to anything I was saying. I didn't like what he was doing and then I was also worried that I wasn't good for you boys anymore. That I was going to be the reason that someone got hurt."
Dean reared back in surprise. Of all the things he had been expecting, this wasn't it. "You were better than Dad was! You never left us alone or-or sent us off on hunts." He hadn't meant to say that out loud and his face flushed and he fumbled to explain what he meant. "Dad would just—I mean, we—I don't know, Dad did fine by us. He did. But we were always happy when we got to stay with you as well. We were safe."
Bobby nodded, admitting, "I can see that now, but back then, I was—I wasn't ready, I've done a lot of thinking since then and some things have changed, but I wasn't ready and John was starting to send you both my way more frequently. It was turning into a full-time gig, which I was fine with but I knew that something was going to go wrong. That I was going to screw either of you up or that something bad was going to happen on my watch. Hell, do you remember that summer when I was gone on a hunt and you had to break the backdoor window to get in?"
"Yeah," Dean said with a shrug. He could also remember him and Sam sitting on the top of the stairs and the yelling match that Bobby and John had gotten into on the phone.
"That was kind of the beginning of the end, so to speak. I was so pissed off at John that I couldn't see straight. He hadn't tried very hard to track me down and let me know that he was sending two kids my way with no notice. He just sent you two out to fend for yourselves, and it was clear that wasn't the first time he'd done that, you handled the situation too well and kept trying to downplay how bad it was. But what if you hadn't been able to get in? That summer we were hitting all-time highs and you boys walked miles to get my house in the heat. You could have gotten heatstroke or sun exhaustion. Or what if you had gotten lost or hit by a car, or…the list just went on and on in my head. That—it opened a can of worms that I couldn't shake.
"What if next time I was hunting something and brought it back with me and you boys happened to be there and I didn't know? Or, what if next time it was just Sam that he sent across the country on a bus? I'll remind you that John did that, just a few months later. Sam was waiting at the bus stop for hours in the middle of the night because he wasn't sure how to get to my house and was scared to walk it alone in the dark without you. Do you remember that imaginary friend he used to have? Scully? Sage? Silas?"
"Sully?" Dean supplied with a frown. He remembered that time. Remembered phoning Bobby repeatedly whenever he could because he hadn't wanted Sam to be stuck waiting for Bobby. Remembered the stress and anxiety he couldn't shake when they'd put Sam on that bus, and the relief when Bobby had called and said that he had him the next morning.
"Yeah, Sully. Apparently, he told Sam that they should just wait for someone to come pick him up, and I had to thank an imaginary friend for that boy's safety because a nine-year-old kid out there wandering around in the dark? I don't even like to think…" Bobby trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do you see where I'm going with this? Those weren't isolated events. As soon as you left John's sight, you were my responsibility and it scared the hell out of me. And even if you weren't hurt, how was I supposed to keep kids happy? Was I supposed to let you watch TV or force you to read books? And it made me angry at John. Damn angry. I know you probably feel differently and I don't mean to speak bad of the dead but—"
"He was doing the best that he could. He had a lot on his plate," Dean said stiffly but firmly. He wasn't interested in anything that further tarnished his view of his father. It had already become so damaged over the last few months and Dean just didn't think that he could handle that.
"Best that he could," Bobby snorted anyway under his breath before taking a sip of his beer and looking up at Dean with a strange glint in his eyes. "You know," he began hesitantly. "I didn't exactly have the best childhood either. It wasn't…my daddy wasn't exactly great. I get it, Dean, I—"
"I don't want to talk about my Dad," Dean insisted and Bobby instantly backed off, looking relieved.
Taking a steadying breath, Dean glanced back at Sam again, and then, since they were already in the middle of this sappy fest, he went for it.
"So it wasn't us, me and Sam, then?" he asked and Bobby looked up sharply.
"No. God, no. It wasn't ever you, Dean. Or Sam. You two were damn good kids. It…it wasn't you. It was John. And it was me. I also…I'm not proud of it. I'm not proud of a lot of those decisions I made during that time and I wish I could take a lot of them back but I can't.
Dean didn't know what to say and Bobby raised his hands helplessly. To Dean's shock, his eyes were now shimmering with unshed tears."You asked me why I'm doing this. Why I'm helping you out? It's because I abandoned two kids when they needed me most. And those kids grew up to be impressive young men, and I'd like the chance to get to know them again."
Dean sat back, his mind whirling before he finally said, "You work on that little speech in the shower?" to break the tension.
Bobby snorted and cleared his throat roughly. "You be careful, boy. I still know where my shotgun is."
Dean shook his head as he finished off the last of his beer. "I—thank you, for telling me that. We—I wanted to understand," he said and Bobby nodded, not pushing for anything else which Dean was grateful for. There was so much he could say. How Bobby's house had always been a safe place for them, how they had been able to call him and always know that he'd pick up. How he'd cared for them like precious few others had.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
"Another one?" Bobby asked, indicating the beer, but Dean shook his head.
"No. No, I—" He jerked his thumb back behind him at Sam. He needed to be sober.
"Right. Well, if you do want one, it's right here." Bobby placed the bottle back on the table and then slapped his knees and stood up with a small groan. "I'm going to go get some more cold clothes and then I might turn in for a few hours so that I can relieve you later."
"Probably smart," Dean agreed and Bobby began to leave. He stopped at the door before half turning and saying. "I was serious earlier. This place…you and Sam are always welcome here."
"Even if we have to break a window to get in?" Dean asked and Bobby rolled his eyes.
"Or, you know, I could give you a spare key. Idjit." Bobby shook his head and walked away.
Dean rolled his eyes as he stood and wearily moved back to Sam's side. He absently began to blot at the sweat on Sam's face and neck with one of the used washcloths, his mind whirling. To say that conversation had been a revelation was putting it lightly.
Sam's eyes fluttered and he tensed, ready to put on a smile if Sam really was waking up but he just let out a soft groan, his head twisting the side before he stilled again.
Sighing, Dean rested his hand on Sam's arm. "I don't know, Sammy. Things used to be simpler when we were kids, weren't they?" he asked but Sam didn't respond and Dean sighed, glancing back over in the direction where Bobby had left.
Bobby would never replace his father, but it would be nice to not be completely alone like he knew that they had both been feeling recently. To have someone that he and Sam could depend upon and call regularly when things went south, to have a place that they could come to if they needed a break.
Hell, if the FBI ever did catch up with them, then it would be nice to know that there was someone on the outside who cared if Sam and Dean ever saw the sun again.
Still musing on it, Dean watched Sam sleep, his thoughts a long way away.