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The first time John Winchester dumped his sons on Bobby Singer’s doorstep for a summer, Bobby had no idea what to do.
Little Sammy, no more than four years old and barely as tall as Bobby’s knees, stared up at him with wide eyes, fingers tucked safely in the pocket of his big brother’s jeans. And Dean, scrawny and skittish at eight, maybe nine, wrapped his arm around his little brother’s shoulders and subtly nudged him to put more distance between him and this new stranger.
Bobby had never wanted kids of his own, let alone someone else’s, but looking at the two of them on his porch like a pair of stray puppies, he knew he had to try.
Dean hadn’t trusted Bobby at first. Didn’t talk much, gave him shifty looks, and never ever left him alone with Sam.
Bobby remembers taking the boys out to walk around the scrapyard one sunny day, and the first flickers of interest Dean showed in all the old cars.
“That one’s a Chevrolet,” Bobby pointed to an old, rusted out shell, hoping to engage the boy further.
“I know,” Dean said, a touch defiant.
Bobby hummed and pointed at another. “What about that one, then?”
“Camaro,” Dean mumbled.
“Impressive. You know your stuff, huh, kid?”
It was so quick that Bobby wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but he’s pretty sure that was the first time he saw Dean smile.
A lot has happened in the years since that first summer. The boys are grown now, each their own men, and despite Bobby’s fallout with their father, they’ve come back to him.
Bobby’s spare room has piled up with junk over the years, but in his head, it never really stopped being their room.
Sam and Dean are on a hunt nearby, chasing down a rumor Bobby heard about what he thinks is probably a nuckelavee, and he’s decided to take the time now to finally clean up the room a bit so that they have a proper place to stay after. One of them will still have to take the couch, but the other at least won’t have to crash in a sleeping bag on the floor.
It’s no five star resort, but he’s at least cleared the stacks of books from the room and put a fresh set of sheets on the bed. The phone rings as he sets about organizing the dusty tomes onto shelves.
Bobby knows who it is as soon as he picks up by the rumble of the Impala in the background.
“Well, Bobby,” Dean says, his voice sounding garbled through Bobby's old landline, “you sure know how to pick ‘em.”
“I take it you met our nuckelavee?”
“Oh, we met alright. Torched the sucker,” Dean announces proudly.
Sam’s voice pipes up in the background. “Yeah, not before it took a chunk outta you.”
"You let it bite you?" Bobby exclaims incredulously. “I distinctly remember that being the one thing I warned you not to do!”
"We didn't let it do anything," Dean grumbles. "Damn thing was fast as hell. Got us both."
"Idjits," Bobby mutters. "Well, good news is the bite isn't deadly. Bad news is, you're gonna be feeling real lousy for a few days. Nuckelavee’s mouth is loaded with crap that’s supposed to decimate farmlands."
"Aw, come on," Dean drawls, "it can't be too bad."
"Oh, yes it can," Bobby says, speaking from experience. "You boys are gonna be sick as dogs. How long will it take you to get to Sioux Falls?"
There's a rustle that Bobby assumes is Dean checking his watch. "'Bout an hour or so."
"Better hightail it," Bobby advises. "Venom's gonna start kicking in in about that time."
"Great," Dean says without enthusiasm, "can't wait. Listen, Bobby, are you sure you still want us to come? I don’t wanna get in your hair. We can just hole up somewhere a couple'a days and then head over when we aren't sick."
"Don't be dense," Bobby tells him. "I've already made up the spare room. And besides, I'm the one who sent you chasing after that nuckelavee. It's my fault you got bit, least I can do is give you a proper bed to sleep it off."
"Not your fault," Dean protests immediately, just like Bobby knew he would. "But hey, next time you want us to visit, just ask, old man."
The call ends. Bobby huffs. Damn kids. Figures they'd pick up on the real reason Bobby had tipped them off on a hunt so close by.
He can remember his own tangle with a nuckelavee as though it was yesterday, the way he'd been plagued with fever, aches, nausea, the whole bit. Like the flu cranked up to eleven. The next few days are bound to be miserable for all parties involved, but Bobby still feels better about having Sam and Dean here where he can keep an eye on them.
The boys show up on his doorstep an hour later, looking like roadkill.
"You weren't kiddin', huh?" Dean asks by way of greeting, his voice rough.
"Get inside," Bobby says, "before you keel over."
Sam's got most of his weight leant on his older brother, and Bobby grabs him by the arm to lighten the load as they shuffle into the kitchen.
"Thanks, Bobby," Sam mumbles. He's hunched in on himself, face flushed and eyes glazed.
Dean's no better, all but collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table once he realizes Bobby's taken over the job of making sure his little brother stays upright, curling up with a groan so that his forehead is pressed into the tabletop.
"Think you can make it up to the spare room by yourself?" Bobby asks Sam. "I'll send your brother up after you as soon as I can peel him off my kitchen table."
Sam nods, and weakly asks Bobby, "Make sure his bite wounds get cleaned up? Stubborn jerk bandaged up mine but wouldn't let me look at his."
“I’ll take care of it,” Bobby assures him quietly.
He shepherds Sam towards the stairs and makes a pit stop for a first aid kit before coming back to sit at the table across from Dean.
That first summer, so long ago, whenever Sam got hurt or sick or scared, he always ran to Dean. Bobby can remember, on more than one occasion, bending down to help a wailing Sam with a scraped knee or a bee sting, only for the kid to barrel right past him and into his brother’s arms.
But Dean didn’t have a big brother to run to. For a long, log time, Bobby never saw him shed a tear or heard him make so much as a whimper.
Of course, as time went on, Sam opened up and came to Bobby for help with things, too. Dean didn’t really warm to him until the end of the summer, though, one night when Bobby was up late reading into demon lore.
The boy had crept downstairs so silently that Bobby hadn’t noticed him until he was standing right next to his desk.
“Geez, boy, give an old man a heart attack, why don’t you?” Bobby said.
Dean looked down to the floor, his voice quiet and subdued. “Sorry, sir.”
“How come you’re up?” Bobby asked, a little softer this time.
Dean shrugged, his shoulders bunched up and arms hugging his middle.
“You feelin’ sick?” Bobby asked. Looking closer, Dean seemed a little pale.
Dean didn’t answer, just swallowed and asked timidly, “Could I please have some water?”
“‘Course you can. Go siddown on the couch, I’ll bring it to you.”
Dean did as he was told, and Bobby filled up a glass from the kitchen sink, passing it to him and sitting on the other end of the couch.
Dean took a couple small sips before setting the glass on the coffee table and curling back up, knees to his chest, eyes downcast.
“What’s the matter, Dean?” Bobby asked.
“My stomach hurts,” Dean admitted quietly after a couple beats.
“You gonna hurl?”
Dean shook his head. “No, sir.”
“None of that ‘Sir’ crap, now,” Bobby said in a tone he hoped was soothing. “I’m just Bobby. How about you tell me what I can do to make things better?”
Bobby leaned a little closer, trying to get a better look at him. Dean eyed him warily before his face crumpled and he hid in his drawn up knees.
“I just want my dad,” he whined.
“Aw hell,” Bobby murmured, sitting there helplessly as Dean hiccupped and sniffled. “I’m sorry your daddy ain’t here, kid.”
He tentatively reached out to smooth a hand over the boy’s back. At first, Dean tensed like he’d been slapped, but Bobby kept at it, rubbing circles over his spine, and eventually Dean fell asleep there on the couch.
The man sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table now is a far cry from that little kid that cried himself to sleep that night, but Bobby can’t help but compare. He cracks open the first aid kit.
“Alright,” he gestures at Dean, “let’s see the damage.”
Dean grumbles something under his breath but shrugs out of his jacket, wincing. There are two angry sets of teeth marks halfway down his arm.
Bobby sets about cleaning the wounds. Dean doesn’t protest, submitting himself to the poking and prodding without even lifting his head. It’s not long until his arm is cleaned and bandaged, but even in that short time, his skin grows more flushed with fever and sweat beads on the back of his neck.
“Let’s get some meds into you,” Bobby says, “while you can still keep ‘em down.” It’s been a while, but he knows the symptoms will progress pretty quick.
“Dunno about that,” Dean mumbles, his freshly patched arm moving to cradle his middle.
Proving Bobby’s point, between one second and the next Dean is staggering to his feet, looking decidedly green. He only makes it as far as the kitchen sink before he’s tossing his cookies.
“Sorry,” Dean groans miserably. He spits a final time and fumbles to turn on the faucet.
Bobby heaves a sigh and finishes packing up the last of the first aid supplies before he takes Dean by the arm and guides him towards the stairs on shaky legs.
“I’m bunking you two together,” Bobby tells him. “Easier to keep an eye on you both. ‘Sides, you shared that room all the time as kids.”
“Tha’ was ‘fore Sam grew into a friggin’ tree,” Dean complains weakly, panting with the effort of staying upright.
Bobby slings Dean’s arm over his shoulders and tucks him close as they climb the steps. Maybe it’s cruel to make him climb stairs like this, but like Bobby said, it’ll be easier to keep the boys together.
“I gotcha,” Bobby says, gripping just a little tighter when Dean trips up the last step.
In the spare room, Sam has already crawled into bed, covers pulled up so only a tuft of hair pokes out. His shoes, jeans and jacket have been left in a haphazard pile on the floor. Bobby kicks them out of the way so he can deposit Dean on the other side of the bed. Dean flops face first and doesn’t make any more attempts to move after that, even when Bobby hauls his shoes off for him.
Sam rouses with the movement and noses his way out of the blanket, opening one eye to peer up at Bobby before it lazily slides closed again. He’s shivering, Bobby realizes, and opens the closet to retrieve more blankets.
He spreads one over Dean and tucks the rest carefully around Sam. Sam makes a sad little noise in the back of his throat and burrows deeper into the cocoon, the same way he used to when he was a tiny kid.
Not so tiny anymore, Bobby thinks fondly, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. Sam’s skin is boiling when he makes contact.
“You’re burning up, kid,” he admonishes. A quick press of the backs of his fingers to Dean’s forehead finds him much the same.
Bobby makes sure they’re both arranged comfortably before leaving to fetch some supplies. He’s in for the long haul, here, and tries to think of everything they might need so he won’t have to make as many trips back and forth.
He grabs them each some water and dredges up a bottle of Tylenol that he's mostly pretty sure isn’t expired, though he can’t really check because half the label is ripped off. A bucket gets pulled out of the junk in the basement, to have on hand in case there are any repeat performances of what happened to the kitchen sink, and a couple more blankets from another closet downstairs.
A stack of washcloths and a basin of cold water make the finishing touches before Bobby trudges back upstairs to the boys' room.
They’re both passed out, curled towards each other, but they come around with some prodding, and, groggy and dazed, hardly tracking what’s happening, they allow themselves to be plied with meds and water.
Bobby arranges cold compresses on their foreheads as they drift off again and steps back to admire his handiwork. They still look miserable, exhausted and sick, but they at least look cared for, and that’s about all Bobby can do while they wait for this to blow over.
He checks on them every hour, coaxing them to stay hydrated if they wake up at all, and simply changing out the washcloths if they don’t.
One eventful time he walks in on Sam making use of the emergency bucket, Dean sitting behind him looking half a second away from passing out but still holding his hair back, but mostly they sleep, and Bobby thinks he should be rewarded with a Nobel Peace Prize or something for resisting the urge to take a photo for future blackmail purposes.
Well, okay, maybe he takes one photo. They’re just too darn adorable, cuddled up with each other like they were as youngsters.
Their fevers climb, like Bobby knew they would, and each time he comes to check on them they seem a little more out of it, expressions glazed. Bobby would be more worried, but fortunately this is something he’s researched extensively—and lived through as a result—so he knows they’ll be alright once it’s out of their systems.
Still, he can’t help but feel a little helpless and a lot guilty as he swipes a fresh cloth over Sam’s too-warm skin.
Sam stirs at the contact.
"Dean?" he rasps.
"Your brother's right there next to you, Sam," Bobby assures him softly.
Sam reaches blindly next to him on the bed until he finds Dean's wrist and holds on tight, then quickly snores himself back to unconsciousness.
Dean doesn't react to Sam's touch, though he also wakes a little when Bobby changes the compress on his forehead.
He looks up at Bobby with eyes dulled by fever, and weakly asks, "Dad?"
Bobby's old frozen heart clenches.
"You're alright, kiddo," he answers, not really wanting to confuse Dean by telling him his father isn’t here, nor to rehash why that is. "Go back to sleep."
Dean's mouth twitches in what might almost be part of a smile, and he does as he's told, eyes fluttering closed.
These damned kids, Bobby thinks, will be the death of him. If only Karen could see him now.
He kind of wishes she could. Wishes John could, too, for that matter. To see how good his sons turned out, despite all the crap he pulled.
That was one thing John Winchester had always made crystal clear, that Dean and Sam were his sons.
Well, Bobby thinks as he watches over them fondly, they may have been John's sons, but they would always be Bobby's boys.