Chapter Text
“Bobby, hey, it’s Sam.”
“Sam? Jeez, boy, how long’s it been? You ain't been picking up the phone so much recently.”
“Yeah, I, uh, yeah, I’m sorry about that. It’s – well – you know.” Sam cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry, Bobby, for what it’s worth, for, uh–“
“You don’t need to say it,” he interrupted.
Sam let out a sigh of relief, the sound whooshing down the phone line. “Yeah, okay, thanks. Thanks, man. So, listen, I know you’re out the game now—“
“Hell, we’re all out, Sam.”
Fact was… there was no such thing as the game now. Thanks to their ex BFF, Cas, also known as God 2.0. The ex-angel had wiped the world of every damn creepy-crawly dark creature on it, sending all those monster souls down to his personal all you can eat buffet in one fell swoop. Not to mention what he’d done to the demons, walling them up in hell like some huge-ass Alcatraz, making another damn deal with that sneaky little bastard Crowley to keep them under lock and key for good. He wanted to make the world a safer place, or so he’d said, getting his finger out and doing what God should’ve done a long time ago. Giving you the opportunity to build lives apart from hunting, he’d told all three of them, gazing at them one by one with those creepy-ass, empty eyes. They hadn’t protested at the time, and who the hell would? Protest to God? Risk that shit going off nuclear. So they’d all smiled and pledged their allegiance and eternal gratitude and thanked him profusely for making hunting (and hunters) a thing of the past.
And yeah, sure, the world was a hell of a lot safer now, you couldn’t argue against that. No more nasties going bump in the night, no more innocents being skewered by ghosts or turned by vamps or worse of all – possessed by some demonic sonofabitch. And he was grateful for it, of course he was. But damn, life sure was boring now: sitting around every night with his thumb up his ass, drinking himself into an even earlier early grave, no longer any chance of a hunt finally finishing him off for good.
“Yeah, of course, and I completely understand if you say no,” Sam continued, “but it’s Dean, Bobby.”
Dean. Of course it was Dean. With Sam it was always Dean, just as with Dean it was always Sam. Well, at least they were consistent.
“Dean? What’s happened to Dean?”
“He’s sick. He’s in the hospital. That’s where I am right now, where I’m calling from.”
“Jesus Christ, Sam, why the hell didn’t you say so? Is he okay? What’s wrong with him?”
“God, Bobby, it’s so freakin’ stupid. He got this infection, something from work, or maybe not, we don’t know, he could’ve gotten it anywhere. Just something he picked up and we thought it was a cold, just a normal, stupid cold, and we needed the money and Dean – well, you know how he is – he kept refusing to take any time off and rest up. And he’s just so stubborn you know, always gotta make out like everything’s fine. But he kept getting worse, until a few days ago I got a call at work, and he’d collapsed, Bobby, the stupid jerk’d collapsed on the job. He’s in Intensive Care right now with one of those machines breathing for him and... shit, man, you gotta see him, he’s lying there, all helpless and there are fucking machines breathing for him...” Sam broke off, his voice cracking up a little. He exhaled, breath whooshing down the line again. Bobby swallowed and cradled the phone between his shoulder and neck. He reached for the whiskey bottle perched on top of a pile of old manuscripts, just old crap he’d been trying to sort through before Sam’d called, a long-overdue attempt at spring-cleaning, no excuses anymore, not with all this new down-time. He poured himself a generous couple of fingers, raised the glass to his lips.
“Bobby, you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah, Sam, I’m here.”
He swallowed the whiskey in one go, forcing it down over the stupid-ass lump swelling up at the back of his throat. Freaking Winchesters. Goddamn, worst damn day of his sorry life, the day John Winchester came rolling up his yard, smart-ass look on his face and two skinny, snotty-nosed kids in the back. Never had a moment’s peace since that day.
He sighed, asked: “Sam? Where are you?”
“St Pete’s. It’s the only hospital in town. So you’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
“Thanks, thanks, Bobby.”
Sam hung up and Bobby swore out loud, staring down at the phone in his hand. He tossed it aside with a sigh then went upstairs to get his shit together.
()
Sam was sitting in the waiting area of the ICU, head cradled in his hands, when Bobby strode inside. He looked up as Bobby approached and blinked, smearing his hands over his face, and getting slowly to his feet. He looked like shit, like he hadn’t slept in a week, and knowing Sam, that probably wasn’t far off the mark.
“Bobby, hey,” he said. “Thanks, man, thanks for coming. It means a lot. After everything I mean.” He trailed off, the unsaid words hanging between them. “To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure if you would.” He bowed his head, huffed out a shaky breath, his mouth twisting as he raised his eyes again. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d told me to go screw yourself.”
He rolled his eyes at the boy; saw the corner of his mouth quirk up a little, a bashful sort of a smile edge onto his face.
“But it sure is good to see a friendly face,” Sam said.
He didn’t say anything in return, just pulled Sam into a hug, arms and legs moving before he was even aware of it. He felt Sam hesitate, stiffen a little before he relaxed and went with it. The kid felt less substantial than Bobby remembered, harder and bonier, and when he let him go, he noticed that Sam didn’t look quite as freaking huge as the last time he’d clapped eyes on him, two years ago now. He was noticeably thinner, with much less muscle-mass than before, the bones in his face more prominent, his skin almost grey, eyes dark with shadows and stress, hair lank and greasy where it fell across his face
He swallowed hard, a wave of guilt surging up from his gut. Shit, he should’ve made more of an effort to call them. Who gave a crap if they never picked up the damn phone? It was a two way street. He should’ve tried harder. He knew better than anyone what stubborn asses they could be, and Christ knew that those two boys got into enough damn scrapes on their own.
“So, how’s everything been then?” he asked at last. “Apart from Dean getting his fool self put in the damn hospital?”
“Good I guess. All things considered,” Sam answered hesitantly. “Dean’s pretty happy with work. He got promoted to foreman a few months back – I think that’s one of the reasons he felt so damn guilty about taking any time off – that and making rent of course.”
Bobby snorted. “Right.”
Sam’s mouth twisted again, into one of those wry smiles. “Yeah. I’m working too, you know? Just part time at this little local museum attached to the university. I’m doing a lot of Latin translation, and other sorts of research for them. They’ve got this idea that I’m some sort of scholar. If you can believe it.”
He could believe it: Sam hunched over dusty books and pieces of broken pottery, scrolling through pages of microfiche and academic journals. He’d be in heaven.
“It doesn’t pay much and it’s only part-time. They can’t afford more than that, but it passes the time, and I get out the house. And you know, I can’t really take on too many hours. Way things are still -” he trailed off again, not meeting Bobby’s gaze. “You know how it is,” he said finally.
He knew how it was. He could remember those first weeks after Cas smashed through Sam’s mental dry-wall with a metaphorical sledgehammer then proceeded to “fix” the world for them and flutter his feathery ass back off to heaven. Sam had been a wreck, tormented by nightmares and visions, scratching and clawing and tearing at himself, as if trying to rip the very life from his own body, skin bathed in sweat and blood where his nails had broken through, hairs caught between his fingers where he’d torn them out of his own head. He and Dean had been forced to cut his nails down to the quick, so short it must've stung like a bitch, and they'd shaved his head - a look that’d made him look so unlike the Sam they knew that Bobby’d practically done a double-take every time he’d clapped eyes on the boy. Then together they’d restrained him to the bed in the panic room and taken turns to keep watch, though Dean’d been pretty much a permanent fixture in there, dragging in another cot so he could sleep beside Sam when he couldn’t keep his eyes open, only leaving the room to piss or when Bobby forced him to.
They’d tried all sorts of medication, cocktails of sedatives and painkillers to ease the pain in Sam’s head and calm him down, herbal crap he’d gotten from this ex-warlock he knew in Seattle, everything they could think of. But nothing penetrated Sam’s broken mind. In the end, the only thing that had any effect, the only thing that seemed to bring the poor kid any kind of peace was when Dean crawled into bed with him, wrapping himself around his brother like an enormous safety blanket. But even then the reprieve would be short-lived and Sam would be waking once more, lashing out at Dean and anybody else who came close, hissing and howling and cursing in languages that even Bobby didn’t recognize.
He’d seen things, those nights when he’d insisted to Dean that the kid get a couple of hours bunk time and he’d taken up the task of watching over Sam. Sam would wake up, eyes glassy and feverish, body undulating and writhing, big hand skimming over his blood-red, sweat-glowing skin, thrusting down to touch himself in places Bobby never wanted to think about in relation to Sam, and Jesus Christ on a cracker, he really hadn’t signed up for that. And most definitely not to hear the fateful words that spilled from Sam’s lips: the begging and pleading for Bobby to go get Dean, that he needed Dean, that Dean had to come and help him out, Dean had to satisfy him, Dean was the only person who could help him, Dean had to come and do things to him that made Bobby’s blood run cold.
But God help him, he’d done it. He’d gone to get Dean. He’d closed that iron door behind them. But not before he’d heard the hissing, pleading words pouring from Sam’s lips and Dean’s quiet, soothing promises, not before, from the corner of his eye, he’d seen how Sam had grabbed his brother’s hand and pushed it down under the covers.
He’d tried to tell himself it was the hell memories, Sam’s poor broken brain still caught up and held captive back in Lucifer’s cage. He could only guess at what kind of horrific shit Sam had gone through back there, what kind of images and tricks the Devil (the fucking Devil!) had played on him.
But he could only fool himself for so long. The look in Dean’s eyes had been enough.
He’d always suspected. A man would be blind not to, and Bobby was not just a man, he was the boys’ surrogate parent. He knew them, he loved them. But every time his mind had gone there, that quiet, niggling voice whispering about just how much those boys loved each other and how badly they clung to each other, and didn’t it make sense over so many years and so many shared rooms and with such a world-ending kinda love they bore for each other – didn’t it make sense that maybe, just maybe, something had gotten loose along the way?
But he’d always shut down that sinuous, insinuating whisper, always sternly told himself that whatever Sam and Dean had been through and however far they’d strayed from normal over the years, they’d never do that. However intense their bond, however abnormally close and dependant on each other they were, they weren’t that.
But seeing Sam in that state, seeing with his own eyes how Sam latched and grasped onto Dean, how he thrust up into up into him, hands grabbing and cradling Dean’s face, pulling him down in a way that was unmistakable, in a way that even Bobby’s wilfully blind eyes couldn’t help seeing. The veil was well and truly torn away.
After that, things got… awkward. And that was a freaking understatement. Dean and Sam left as soon as they could, chased away by – well he had no doubts that it was the shame and embarrassment, running from the reality that was him knowing their dirty little secret. As for himself, he felt like the worse kind of asshole to admit this, but he was glad to see the back of them. There was a point and he’d gotten to it. He’d butted his head against it, and he didn’t want to know anymore. He didn’t want to know that about them, he didn’t want to think of the two of them like – like that. Together.
Even now, a good two years later, he still couldn’t –
Jesus, it made his skin crawl.
It took him a good few weeks after they’d left to pluck up enough guts to pick up the phone, and he was still reluctant, acting more out of a sense of duty and responsibility than an actual desire to mend fences.
It didn’t go well. As soon as he heard Dean’s voice, he remembered those soft, soothing words tumbling from Dean’s lips; remembered the look in Dean’s eyes as he’d gazed down at Sam and given into his demands; remembered the hopeless, resigned look on Dean’s face when he’d stepped from the panic room afterwards and seen Bobby standing there; remembered how Dean had run from him, hidden out in the car for hours afterwards, hunched over in the driver’s seat, until Sam had started clamoring for him again. Dean had only said something once, after a bottle and a half of his finest rotgut, slurred and sloppy and pleading: “I’m sorry, Bobby, so fuckin’ sorry. You weren’t s’posed to find out, not ever s’posed to find out.” He hadn’t replied. He’d been too angry, too betrayed to give Dean any kind of forgiveness. He’d just helped his drunken ass to the couch and thrown a blanket over him before he’d gone to take up vigil at Sam’s bedside.
That phone call didn’t mend anything. It just made things worse: stilted, uncomfortable small-talk, awkward inquiries about Sam and more long silences. They couldn’t even talk about hunting anymore thanks to their old buddy Cas, not even that to fall back on. Not long after one call when they discussed the weather and pre-season football, they both stopped picking up, and he was relieved.
Still, Sam was reaching out to him now, Sam needed him. And Dean was in the freaking hospital. He needed to get over his damn self and suck it up and just be there for them. Like family should be.
“So, what’s the latest on Dean?” he asked, making his voice as commanding and forceful as possible, knowing Sam was hard-wired to respond to that tone.
Sam exhaled heavily, raised his hand to pinch his forehead, fingers digging into his eyebrows.
“He’s gonna be out for another twelve hours at least. They’re letting this machine breathe for him so his lungs have time to repair themselves. The virus – it’s like – it’s like some super-vamped up version of the pneumonia virus.”
“But the prognosis is good? I mean pneumonia ain’t pretty but it’s curable. He’s gonna be okay?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. They’re not committing to anything, Bobby. And it’s – it depends how he responds to the latest batch of anti-virals. First lot they gave him his body rejected. Awkward bastard as usual.” Sam huffed out a breath, another of those humorless, pained sounds.
“Right. But you gotta remember that this is Dean. Kid’s a fighter. He ain’t gonna give in that easily.” He moved to clap Sam on the shoulder, dragged his hand down to squeeze his forearm. “He’ll be okay, Sam. Dean’s not gonna be beaten by some freakin’ virus, no matter how souped up it is.”
Sam nodded, bent his head. When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I know, Bobby.”
He was trembling under Bobby’s palm, hands shaking a little as he pushed them forcibly into the pockets of that old green Carhartt jacket he’d been wearing for years.
“You eaten?” he asked.
Sam jerked his head up, eyes wide in confusion. “I don’t know, I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember? If you can’t remember then the answer’s no.” He sighed, glanced around them. “This place got a cafeteria?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think so.”
“Let’s go get some food. You can tell me everything else over dinner.”
“But Dean –“
“You said he’s sedated. Well, let him sleep, let him rest up. It’s what he needs. You, on the other hand. You gotta take care of yourself, Sam; you won’t be no use to your brother otherwise.”
Sam hesitated, tongue slicking over his lips like he was about to protest, ever the stubborn Winchester. In the end he let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, okay, Bobby.”
The cafeteria wasn’t busy. Just a couple of sad looking families grouped around tables in hushed circles and some tired looking hospital personnel in their own small, subdued groups. He pushed Sam down to sit at one of the beige plastic tables, told him to stay put, and went off to get food. There wasn’t much on offer but what there was looked edible, kinda nice too. And damn, he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten since leaving South Dakota. He gathered up two heaped plates of lasagna, some bread rolls, coffee and orange juice and a couple of pieces of lemon pie.
He slid the tray onto the table between them and commanded Sam tersely to: “Eat. And if you don’t – I’ll tell your brother.”
For the first time, an almost genuine smile began to tug at the corners of Sam’s mouth. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. And you know it.”
Sam shook his head but he picked up one of the plates of pasta and took a tentative bite. His expression cleared a little. “It’s good. Dean’d like it.”
“No doubt. You should bring him here when he’s better.”
“Yeah, like on a date?” The words were out before Sam could help it, and then his expression was freezing up, fork half-way to his mouth, red flush blossoming on his cheeks. He swallowed hard, almost choking on it as he tried to talk: “No, I mean, like, not a date, but like –“ he broke off, coughing, snatching up the lukewarm coffee and taking a swig, hand on his chest as he coughed and choked and hacked and finally managed to swallow the rest of the food.
His eyes were watering, cheeks tomato-red, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, guilt written into every line and crease in his face when he finally managed to look Bobby in the eye again. “I – I didn’t mean...”
“Relax,” Bobby interrupted, trying not to laugh at the traumatized expression on the boy’s face. “I know what you meant. Now, finish. Eat up.”
Sam obeyed, bowing his head and not meeting Bobby’s gaze again until he was done with the lasagna, pie and juice.
“You were hungry,” he commented when Sam’d done. “When was the last time you ate?”
Sam looked guilty at that, raising his hand to the back of his neck again. “Uh, I’m not sure. With Dean being so sick – you know how it is –“
“I know that if you ain’t careful, if you don’t take care of your fool self, then Dean won’t be the only one who’s sick,” he interrupted. “And you know he’ll have my balls if he knew I wasn’t making sure you were alright.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He bent his head again, started to play with the rim of his coffee mug, tracing his finger around it, his bottom lip between his teeth. “Listen, Bobby, thanks for coming. It means a lot. And I know that when Dean wakes up, he’ll be so happy to see you again. He hasn’t said anything, but I know him. He’s really missed you, man, and I think – I think that’s probably my fault.” He raised his head and Bobby saw the telltale sheen to his eyes that signaled held-back tears. Sam was the emotional one, Dean had always said, though they all knew that was bullshit, Dean was just as inclined as Sam to displays of emotions and vulnerability when it came to matters of family.
He nodded his head, swallowed over that same freaking lump. Jesus, freaking Winchesters. “God knows why but I've missed you both too.”
Sam smiled faintly before his expression grew serious once more. "Listen, Bobby. You should know - everything that you found out. About Dean and me, I mean.” Sam paused, glanced down at where his hands still played with the coffee cup. “We’re still. That is, Dean and me. Nothing’s changed there – between us. In case you were expecting -”
“- I wasn’t expecting,” he interrupted sharply.
Sam flinched, nodded, head bobbing up and down, his gaze still focused on the table-top, on the dregs of coffee at the bottom of his mug. He set his shoulders, looking like he was about to go into battle. Slowly, he sat up straight, raising his head to meet Bobby’s gaze.
“Also, you should know that the doctors and nurses here, they don’t think we’re brothers. They think we’re – well, you know.”
“Partners?”
“Yes.”
“In every sense of the word?”
Sam flushed but he kept meeting Bobby’s gaze as he nodded once more. “Yes. When we settled down here we didn’t want to use our real names, as you know. And it seemed – easier I guess, more practical to not be brothers. It keeps us hidden better, and there are other benefits. Our neighbors are pretty cool about it and everyone thinks I’m some kind of war hero, which explains a lot I suppose. My boss has been really nice about letting me have time off when things get bad and… sometimes in the office when I –“ he waved a hand, that self-deprecating curl of his lip again – “you know. But her brother is out in Afghanistan so she’s pretty understanding, and it doesn’t happen so often now. It’s gotten much better than before – than when we were at your place. It’s pretty much under control during the day.”
“But not so good at night?” he prompted gently.
Sam bit his lip, seemed to hunch in on himself, he dropped his gaze again to stare at the table. “It varies. I still get visions, flashbacks, nightmares; I’m not sure how to describe them. And there are times still when – when what I remember – it gets stuck in my head and I get confused.” He smiles, wan and thin and rueful. “Lucifer was creative. He had this one trick: Dad and Dean were his favorites, especially Dean. He loved to use Dean. And – I guess you can imagine how it went. He was really imaginative; he knew exactly what to do or what to say.” He huffed out a breath, sighed heavily. When he spoke again his voice was thick, shaky: “Sometimes, even now, I’ll wake up and Dean’ll be lying beside me with two black-eyes or bruises around his wrists, or scratches all over him, or – or once I came to and my hands were around his neck.” He broke off again, raised his hands to cover his mouth, bowed his head, his hair falling forward to cover his face.
Bobby swallowed, stared at some point past Sam’s shoulder. He wanted to reach over, place his hands over Sam’s, still him, calm him, give him some semblance of comfort. And – really, what was stopping him? He was here right now and this was Sam in trouble and hurting and this was his job, and despite everything, these were his boys.
He reached over, grabbed for Sam’s hands, pulled them away from his mouth and into the middle of the table, careless of the dirty plates, his jacket sleeve falling into the dried-up marinara sauce. He placed his own hands over Sam’s. Sam was staring at him with wide eyes, looking shocked and somewhat disconcerted by the sudden contact.
“Sam, you don’t gotta explain anything. The shit you’ve been through.”
He gave Sam’s hands a reassuring squeeze before letting them go. He glanced up and around the room; a couple of tables over, a young girl was crying into an older woman’s shoulder with racked, heart-breaking sobs, the woman stroking her hair and making soft, shushing noises. He swallowed, raised one hand to rub over his beard.
“What if Dean doesn’t recover, Bobby?” Sam murmured, his voice barely audible. He’d picked up one of their unused paper napkins and was methodically destroying it, tearing it into neat, fine strips.
“He will recover,” he said. “Like I said – this is Dean. He won’t give up so easily. He’s a stubborn sonofabitch. He survived hell, Sam; you of all people know what that means.”
Sam’s mouth twitched and his hands stilled, fists curling around the thin wisps of shredded tissue paper. “Yeah, I know.” He scraped back his chair, slowly straightened, opening up his fists and letting the shreds of tissue paper float down to land on his dirty plate. “I’m gonna head back down there. See if they’ll let me see him again. You want to come?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
()()
Except they couldn’t get into see Dean. Even Sam’s most persuasive tone of voice and big plaintive eyes couldn’t get them past Nurse Ratchett on the ICU reception desk.
“Come back tomorrow. Visiting starts at 2pm. Immediate family only.” Her eyes narrowed in on Bobby. “What relation is he to Mr. Cooper?”
“Uncle,” Sam interjected, not looking at Bobby, “and surrogate father. Dean’s own parents died a long time ago. Bobby’s like a father to him.”
He could actually feel his chest throb as Sam spoke, that stupid lump lodge back into his throat. Goddamn it.
The nurse’s gaze narrowed in on him until she finally nodded. “That should be acceptable.”
“Thanks. We really do appreciate everything you’re doing for him,” Sam said.
She turned to Sam, not seeming to unbend even a little under the full weight of his most sincere tone of voice. “Are you already on the approved list, Mr.?”
“Truman, Sam Truman,” Sam said. “And yes, yes, I am. I’m his partner. Um, his life-partner.” He flushed a brilliant red, trying not to catch Bobby’s eye as he stepped towards her. “I brought him in. The other nurse, Rachel, she knows me.”
She nodded at him, her eyes not losing the suspicious glint. “Right. Well, 2pm tomorrow is when visiting starts so you may as well go home now. We will notify you if there’s any change to his condition.”
Bobby tailed the Impala back to the small one-storey place Sam and Dean had been renting for the past couple of years. He’d never been there before, though he had the address down somewhere for emergencies, it wasn’t like he was the Christmas card sending type. It looked like a regular starter home, with a surprisingly well-kept driveway and front lawn. That would be Dean’s doing most probably, the kid had always seemed to get a kick out of those regular Joe tasks like mowing the lawn and raking leaves, crap that normal folk put off every weekend.
He pulled up behind the Impala, his heart skipping a beat as the driver’s side door swung open and Sam climbed out. It stung to see Sam driving that car with no Dean around. There was something fundamentally wrong about it, and it brought back bad memories of those four long painful months when Sam had driven that car on his own, (not that he’d seen much of Sam for those four months). All things considered, it was a good job he was here. With the exception of his college years, Sam had never done so good when Dean wasn’t permanently attached to his hip.
He followed Sam up the wooden steps to the front porch. There was a swing, creaking in the faint wind. It looked newly painted and he could imagine Dean doing that one weekend, Sam coming out to bring him a beer as he patched up the paintwork, radio on low as he listened to a ball game. Perhaps afterwards the two of them sat out here, chugging down their beers and watching the sun go down.
“It’s kinda a mess inside,” Sam muttered, looking embarrassed as he glanced at Bobby from under that sliding mop of hair, hunched over to unlock the door. “With Dean being so sick, we haven’t been thinking much about keeping the place nice. I guess I should think about that before he gets out.”
Bobby snorted, “What you apologizing to me for? You never seen my place?”
Sam’s mouth crooked. “Point taken.”
Bobby shook his head and followed him inside.
A furious barking started up as soon as they crossed the threshold and a Jersey devil of fur and excitement came bounding towards them. The dog, he’d forgotten they had a dog. What was it called? Leo, Lane, Larry, something beginning with an L.
Sam hunkered down, reaching out to grab onto the dog’s muzzle. “Hey, Len, hey, boy!”
Len, right.
He bent down next to Sam, stretching out a hand to ruffle the dog’s fur. It turned its head towards him, slobbering all over his palm with its thick, leathery tongue.
“Friendly fella, ain’t he?” he said.
Sam turned his head towards him, an almost smile on his face. “Yeah. He is. Hey, Len, this is Bobby. Say hey.”
The dog barked a couple of times, pulling away and butting his head into Bobby’s side, eagerly lapping up the attention. Shit, he’d forgotten how dogs could be. Since that demon bitch had murdered his last one. Maybe it was time for him to consider getting another. It’d been a while now, and let’s face it, not like he had much other company these days.
Sam straightened, passed down the narrow hall to the open door at the end – the kitchen evidently, the dog on his heels. Bobby followed, leaned up against the doorjamb as he watched Sam take a can of dog food out of a high cupboard and peel off the lid. He crouched down to empty the contents into the dog bowl. Len immediately twisted away from where he’d been nosing around at Bobby’s feet, and bounded to the full bowl – a much more interesting distraction. Sam filled up the water bowl next, slopping water on the floor as he placed it next to the dirty dog-bed in the corner of the room. He straightened up, glanced back at the dog who seemed to be eating his dinner like he hadn’t been fed in a month.
“Hungry, or just greedy?” Bobby said.
Sam snorted. “He’s not used to going without. He’s spoiled – no prizes for guessing who spoils him. Seriously, Bobby, we buy the top of the range, luxury stuff for Len while we eat the cheap economy crap. Way Dean sees it: him and me are used to eating crap, but Len’s different, he’s got a delicate constitution. He’s a purebred after all.” He crouched down again, ruffled the dog’s ears. “Dude’s such a sucker. Ain't he, boy? Your daddy? Such a freakin’ sucker.”
Bobby half-smiled, he could just see that, just picture that mutt looking up at Dean with those big, plaintive, liquid eyes; Dean’d been giving into that particular look his entire life.
“You got anything to drink around here?” he asked.
Sam straightened again. “Oh yeah, sorry, man. Sure, we got something.” He headed for the cupboard, took out a half-empty bottle. “Hunter’s helper, right?”
“Not so much the hunter these days.”
“Nope. Not so much,” Sam echoed. He fished a couple of glasses out the sink, rinsed them under the tap then held them up to the light. Evidently deciding they’d do – they weren’t freaking precious about such things – he placed them back on the countertop and poured a couple of generous hunter-sized measures. He held one glass out to Bobby who took it with a nod.
“Listen, thanks, Bobby,” he said, clinking their glasses together. “Thanks for coming. We really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, you’ve already said. And like I’ve already said: you’re welcome. Chrissakes, Sam, Dean’s sick, I’d’ve had your ass if you hadn’t called me.”
Sam nodded, his eyes widening in that endearing, honest way that hadn’t changed one jot from when he was that super-sincere, shrimpy twelve-year old asking if he could take a look at one of Uncle Bobby’s special lore books – just some light, bed-time reading, John looking on from the corner in approval, and Dean shaking his head over the hopeless geekery of his little brother. Always been a dedicated student Sam, he hadn’t been surprised when the kid had gotten himself accepted to a freaking Ivy League school. He’d always known Sam had it in him. He was fond of both of them, maybe Dean had always edged out Sam a little, nestled into that special corner in his heart, what with Dean’s hopeless dedication to his family and to always doing the right thing, maybe Dean had endeared himself to him just that tiny bit more than Sam, who’d never worn his heart on his sleeve in the way his big brother always had. But Sam's feelings ran deep and Sam had been special in other ways, a kid that was going places. If he hadn’t been born a Winchester, Bobby could easily see him sitting in the freaking Oval Office right now. Then again, if he hadn’t grown up a Winchester, he probably wouldn’t have that stubborn-ass tenacity and gumption needed to get you such places.
He grinned and clapped the boy on the shoulder, turning to head into the living room. Sam sure hadn’t been lying when he’d said the place was a mess. The living room was… well, it made his own place look positively neat and tidy by comparison. There was crap everywhere, not just dusty old books and chipped, thumbed glasses, but newspapers and magazines, every article of clothing you could think of, at least four pairs of work-boots, candy wrappers and fast food cartons, beer cans and even a couple of empty bottles of wine, one of which had a candle jammed in the neck in the style of homely Italian restaurants sitting on a plate on the scarred and battered coffee table.
“Uh, yeah, sorry about the mess,” Sam said, following him. He took a couple of steps forward, foot crunching down on top of a pizza box. He lifted his foot, peered down at the pizza box attached to it. He peeled it away with a tearing sound. “Guess I need to recycle.”
“Recycle?” Bobby raised an eyebrow.
Sam shrugged. “The garbage men are very specific about which trash cans you got to put stuff in. If you get the wrong one then they refuse to take it away.”
“Well, that’s what you get for living in a college town.”
He turned around, started to clear a spot on the comfiest looking couch while Sam went back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle. Sam refilled their glasses once more then sank into the armchair in the corner of the room, tossing aside a creased magazine, one of Dean’s shirts and an empty bottle of Maker’s Mark. The furniture was... lived-in. Threadbare would probably be a more accurate description. The kinda shit you’d see in a yard sale after someone had died, after the surviving relatives had gone by and stripped the place of anything decent, after the local church or half-way home or old folks’ place had gotten its due – all the shit that was left after that. But he wasn’t complaining, considering some of the fleabag places Sam and Dean had set up shop in over the years, it was a freaking palace.
“So you’re both happy here? You like this town?”
Sam blinked, as if surprised by the question. “Uh, yeah, yeah, I guess so. I mean, things aren’t perfect, but we’re doing okay –“
“All things considered,” he finished. It was getting to be their catchphrase these days.
“Yeah, well, it could be a lot worse. Gotta figure that Cas did us a favor.”
“You really think so, Sam?”
Sam nodded, sucked in his bottom lip like he was pondering the question. “Well, he’s saved a lot of people. No more monsters means no more people being killed or hurt or turned by monsters. It’s what we used to do but on a much bigger scale.” He paused then said slowly, “Makes me wonder what Dad would’ve thought if he’d ever seen it. If he’d ever have been able to go back to a civilian life.”
“Have you been able to go back to a civilian life?”
“Not like we got a choice.”
Bobby smiled wryly, he’d been asking Sam about himself – just himself. Of course, Sam hadn’t taken the question that way, had answered for both himself and his brother. But that was typical of Sam, of both Winchesters; feelings, emotions, lives so entwined, going through life, experiences as one unit. It wasn’t surprising really that things were as they were between the two of them.
“Anyway, who cares about us?” Sam added. “A lot of people are alive who might not be otherwise. In the grand scheme of things a few lost hunters doesn’t matter so much.”
A few lost hunters, well, that was one way of putting it. He sucked on his glass, swished the liquid around his mouth, feeling the familiar, rancid burn.
Sam turned his head to the side, eyed him thoughtfully. “How about you? How you been handling all this new down-time?”
“Badly,” he snorted.
Sam raised his eyebrows, tilted his glass Bobby’s way. “You should take a leaf out of Dean’s book: join a flag football team.”
“Join a flag football team?” he repeated. “Dean plays flag football?”
“Uh-huh. Baseball too. Couple of the guys on his crew roped him into it. He bitched about it at first, team sports was never really his thing, but he really enjoys it. And he’s pretty good at it, really throws himself into things, which is - well, it has its uses. One way of explaining away the scratches and bruises. Stops him looking like an abused spouse in front of the guys – which – if they ever knew Dean.” He smiled to himself, thoughtful and fond, and right there: there was that awkwardness back again.
He drained his glass, got to his feet. “You gonna show me where I’m bunking down tonight?”
“Oh yes, yes, sure, man.”
Sam placed his own glass down on the corner of that battered coffee table and ushered him out the room and back into the narrow dark hall. He opened the third door along on the left-hand side.
“This is one of the bedrooms, we only got two, but we,” he coughed a little and bent his head, not quickly enough to hide the pink flush, “we only use one. So this room – I guess we should call it a guest room but we don’t get any guests. You’re our first actually. So, yeah, anyway. You can sleep here.”
Sam pushed the door open to reveal a sparsely furnished room with one huge unmade bed, a rickety nightstand with an ancient lamp and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
“I’ll get you some bedding,” Sam said, leaving again.
He stepped into the room and tossed his duffle onto the bare mattress, springs creaking under the weight. The bed was one of those huge-ass things that looked like it’d sprung from the last century – scratch that – century before last, ornate carved bedposts and a polished wood headboard that belonged in some masterpiece theatre rip-off.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked when Sam came back in, arms laden with blankets and sheets and a couple of pillows.
Sam looked down at the bed and his mouth quirked. “Funny you should ask that, Bobby. It’s an interesting story.”
“Before you continue with that shit, Sam, I’m telling you straight: I ain’t sleeping in no haunted bed.”
Sam laughed in genuine humor, his face even lighting up a little. “Dude, lighten up. You know that there’s no such thing as haunted now. But we did make sure. I blessed it with the proper ritual; Dean went crazy with the holy water. It’s fine.”
“Awesome,” he sighed. Freaking Winchesters, a freaking ex-haunted bed.
Sam snickered and dropped his load onto the mattress. He backed up and slapped Bobby on the shoulder. “You’re welcome. Also, I should warn you – the lamp – it’s kinda quirky.”
“Quirky how?” he narrowed his eyes in on Sam then turned to stare at the museum piece sitting on the nightstand.
“Sometimes when you turn it on it gives you this mini electric shock. Nothing big, just a little one. Then other times, it’s fine, nothing.”
“Right,” he sighed. “Electric shock. Check.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Dean keeps meaning to fix it and forgetting. He won’t let me near it, says I’ll just electrocute myself if I try. So, yeah, sorry, man.”
Sam nodded again and left the room. Bobby made up the ex-haunted bed then found his way to the bathroom, a couple of doors down the hall. Like the rest of the place, it had seen better and cleaner days; mould and mildew caked around the tap fittings and into the grooves of the stained tiles around the sink and bathtub. The shower curtain around the tub looked like it could have something living in it and there were dust bunnies and hairballs lurking in the darkened corners of the room. Still, though, it wasn’t like he was a precious snowflake. His own place probably wasn’t as clean as this. By the looks of things, someone at least had been cleaning the toilet and sink on a semi-regular basis.
He pissed and washed up, getting behind his ears and under the collar of his shirt, a memory of his mother years ago tutting over his dirty collars springing into his head. He thought about cleaning his teeth then thought about the quarter of a bottle left out in the living room, and put his toothbrush back on the ledge. He’d do it later; toothpaste and rot-gut whiskey did not make a pleasant combination. He made his way out into the hall again and paused in the doorway to the living room. Sam was wearing out the already worn-out, dog-haired rug, pacing up and down, shoulders hunched up in a tight line, phone jammed to his ear. His face looked drawn and his expression didn’t change when he noticed Bobby watching.
“Yeah, okay, okay,” he was saying. “Yeah, no, I mean – do what you gotta. That’s – I don’t care. Whatever it takes.” He raised his hand to his forehead, pushed it through his hair, his voice got thicker. “Yes, please. Tomorrow, first thing.” He ended the call, thumbed off the phone and threw it onto the couch. His other hand was still caught in his hair, lips pressed together so hard it looked like his face was about to melt from the strain, eyes red and shiny. He stared at Bobby, blinked, a tear slipped free and rolled messily down his face.
Bobby’s stomach lurched, slippery snakes in his belly writhing; he took a hesitant step forward, steadied himself against the doorjamb.
“Is Dean – is he…”
Sam’s expression crumpled, he let out a shaky, cragged breath. He blinked, more tears slipping free, rolling unheeded down his cheeks. “The new set of meds hasn’t worked. He’s not responding like he should. Jesus, Bobby, he keeps rejecting the anti-virals.” He bowed his head, raised both hands to grab handfuls of his hair and tug. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I don’t know what to do. This – this virus – I don’t know how to fight this.”
“Hey, hush.” Bobby took a shaky step forward, feeling his knees buckle a little. “Listen, they haven’t given up hope, right? They’re gonna try something else?” Sam didn’t respond; just kept standing, breathing tightly, expression hidden, shoulders shaking. “Sam,” he repeated, voice louder.
“What can we do, Bobby? He’s not even breathing on his own! This fucking machine is breathing for him ‘cause his lungs are too fucked. They just – they just asked me if I’m willing to sign a DNR. That’s not good, right? That’s really not a good sign?”
Shit. He swallowed hard, trying to fight back the rising panic. “It’s just procedure, Sam,” he said, his voice coming out a hell of a lot calmer than he felt. “They’re just covering their asses.”
“I don’t think they are,” Sam said quietly. He blinked, eyes boring into Bobby. “I don’t know what to do, Bobby. How can we save him? What can we do? He can’t go like this. Not some stupid fucking virus. I can’t – I can’t let him go like this! He can’t leave me.” His voice was getting louder, higher, more hysterical. He jerked away, half-stumbling, resuming his frantic pacing, hands shaking, fingers twitching by his sides. Bobby looked on helplessly, feeling like the most useless kinda tool. But what could they do? This wasn’t something supernatural, this wasn’t something they could fix with magic or a spell or some crazy fucking stunt, and anyway, none of that shit even worked anymore.
Sam jerked to a stop, lunged to snatch up something lying across the back of the couch, and strode past him, through the doorway into the hall.
“Sam, what you doing?” he called after him. “Where you going?”
Sam spun around again, staring at him with wide, crazy eyes. “I gotta get out, Bobby. I gotta think. I’m gonna –“ he held up the thing in his hand and Bobby realized belatedly that it was a dog-leash. “I’m gonna walk Len. I need to – I gotta get out. I gotta figure out how we’re gonna save Dean.” He snapped his mouth shut, stared at Bobby for a couple of seconds then cocked his head and whistled for the dog who came trotting eagerly out of the kitchen towards Sam.
Sam crouched down, muttering under his breath to the dog as he fastened the leash to his collar. He stood, leash in his hand and met Bobby’s eyes. “He’s gotta be walked every day. Dean usually does it. He’ll go crazy if he knows I’ve been slacking off. So I’m gonna –“ he made a jerky, awkward gesture. “I’ve gotta get out,” he muttered again, and then he was spinning on his heels and slamming the front door shut behind him.
Bobby stepped towards the front window and peered through. He could just make out Sam’s long, dark figure, illuminated by the orange street lighting as he jogged down the middle of the road, Len running before him, leash at its full extension. He watched for a couple of moments, hand pressed to the cold, damp glass until Sam disappeared. He exhaled and withdrew, pulling the curtains closed behind him. He helped himself to another large measure of whiskey, carrying the glass with him to the guest bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the just made-up bed, and dropped his hands to his knees, and tried to think.
His heart was beating fast and his stomach was doing that slippery snake thing again, but his mind felt clear. He took a sip of the whiskey, swilling it around his mouth.
Maybe Dean would be okay, maybe the next dosage of meds would fix him, he couldn’t imagine the hospital would give up that easily. If he were the doctor in charge, he’d treat that sonofabitch super-virus like his own personal enemy; he wouldn’t let it get the better of him.
Then again, maybe the next dosage of whatever shit they gave him would provoke an even worse reaction. It was damn typical that the boy’s constitution seemed to be rebelling over what was good for him. Though, seriously, when had Dean Winchester ever done what was good for him?
Hell, maybe this was it. Maybe this was Dean’s time. Maybe it was time for Sam to let go – to let go of that grand, all-encompassing, selfish love, to let his brother rest at last.
Maybe it was time for him to let Dean go.
His chest ached at that thought, a stabbing pain at the back of his eyes, that blockage in his throat. No. He couldn’t let Dean go. Not when he hadn’t had a chance to make up to the boy, to mend things between them. Besides, if Bobby knew those boys at all, then he could put money on Sam following in less than six months. And there was no freaking way he was going to stand idly by and let both of them go without a fight. That wasn’t happening.
He got to his feet, drained the rest of the whiskey, and placed the empty glass on the rickety nightstand, next to the “quirky” lamp. He tilted his head back, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, stared up at the spider-webs and cracks threading across the ceiling, and feeling like the biggest kind of fool, he started to pray.
()
He woke up a couple of hours later, a persistent low keening sound penetrating his sleep and whiskey addled mind like the scratch-hiss murmur of a stuck record. His eyes snapped open, old hunter senses immediately on red-alert. He reached for the lamp, cursed when the damn thing sent a jolt of electricity through his veins. Well, at least it’d woke him up.
He blinked at his watch. Just after 5am. Perfect. No rest for the wicked.
He padded out into the cramped hall; his foot slipped, skidded on something, little knobs of plastic jamming into the vulnerable sole. He cursed, slammed his hand against the wall to right himself and bent down to peer at the offending obstacle: a running shoe with what appeared to be cleats on the sole. No wonder it’d hurt like a bitch. Well, that’d teach him to go wandering around barefoot. He kicked the shoe away with the side of his foot. What the fuck was it doing there anyway? Hadn’t they heard of closets? And what the hell were they doing with cleats? He remembered Sam talking about Dean’s new hobby playing flag football and he shook his head. Christ.
He paused outside the boys’ bedroom. The low keening sound was definitely coming from inside. He listened closely; the hair on the back of his neck prickling up, spiders skittering down his spine as the sounds seemed to change, morphing into long, sibilant hisses, sinuous consonants interspersed with guttural glottal stops.
He swallowed, pulse throbbing in his neck, fingers tingling. He’d heard these sounds before, two years ago in his panic room.
He knocked on the door: “Sam! Sam!”
The noise stopped dead for a couple of beats and he tracked his own heart-beat, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three Mississippi, and then it was back: louder, thicker, the sibilant, glottal hisses crescendo-ing, rising and rising...
He turned the handle and thrust the door open.
The curtains were not drawn, the room bathed in orange light, falling over the huge kingsize bed in a quartered rectangle, illuminating the body writhing and undulating on the bed, the arms spasming and flailing. The boy’s face was wet with sweat, his inky-black hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks, his eyes wide and staring and - black, completely black, as black as the Impala’s paintjob, the street-lights reflected pin-point perfectly in the utter black.
It only took him a couple of seconds to take in the sight and then he was rushing forward, calling out Sam’s name and looming over him to pin his thrashing arms to the bed, forcing them down with tight fingers around Sam’s bony wrists.
“Sam! Sam! C’mon! Wake up! Look at me! Sam! Wake up!”
The boy seemed to calm immediately, the black dissolving from his eyes until he was blinking, staring up at Bobby with blind incomprehension, pupils blown and focus hazy. Slowly, his limbs stopped moving until only his fingers twitched, as if livened by an electric current.
“Dean?” he murmured. “Dean? Where’s Dean? I want Dean.”
“No, Sam, no. It’s Bobby. Dean’s not here. He’s in the hospital.”
Sam blinked. “Oh. Dean’s in the hospital?”
“Yes,” he said gently. “That’s right.”
“Oh.” Sam shifted on the bed, trying to pull up the bunched sheets to cover his (thank the Lord) not-entirely-naked body. “What time is it?”
“Just after five.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry; I must’ve woken you up.”
Bobby shrugged, “Got a couple of hours.”
They fell silent, the seconds ticked by. Sam sat up, bowed his head, stared down at his covered body, his eyebrows were knotted together in confusion, his fingers curled tight around the edge of the sheet.
“I didn’t hear you get back. Did you have a good run?” he asked.
Sam lifted his head, blinked at him, his eyes still looked glassy and unfocussed.
“Sam?” he repeated. “You went out – for a run? When did you get back?”
The question seemed to register slowly and then Sam was clearing his throat, blinking at him and looking a little embarrassed. “Uh, yes, yeah. It was – I don’t know, an hour ago? No, more than that, must be more than that. We went all the way to Palmer Park and back and that’s like five miles from here.” He turned his head, stared at the digital clock radio on the opposite side of the bed. “Shit, it’s after five. I woke you. I must’ve woken you.”
“I told you, it’s okay,” he repeated. He sighed and got to his feet with a creak of his joints. “How about you take a shower? Wake yourself up properly?”
Sam nodded. “Okay, yeah, good idea, Bobby.”
Bobby nodded at him, giving him the ghost of a reassuring smile. He left the room and made for the kitchen. He snapped on the light, Len’s head perking up from his well-cushioned spot on the hair-covered dog bed, regarding him blearily as he fixed coffee, using the prehistoric machine sitting by the even older and more hazardous looking toaster. Christ, what was it with these boys and dangerous electrical equipment?
He heard hot-water pipes start to clang awake as the machine gurgled in the background, the refreshing and (much needed) aroma of fresh coffee starting to fill the room. He poured a couple of mugs when it was done, adding milk and cream for Sam. He picked up the mugs, one in each hand, and walked back into the hallway, hesitating outside the boys’ room. He hadn’t taken much notice when he’d been in there just before, too preoccupied with Sam and what the hell was wrong with Sam. But Sam was not in there right now, Sam was taking a shower, and... damn it, some sort of morbid curiosity was niggling at him, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already been in this room, and Sam would want a cup of coffee when he was done. So, really, where was the harm?
He stepped into the room.
If he hadn’t already known about the boys’ relationship, he guessed this room would’ve been a pretty fucking big red flag. The evidence was right here: shoes in two different sizes, clothes in two different sizes tossed over every surface, closet hanging open displaying two different sets of clothes mingled together. The two separate used nightstands: one with a stack of books and papers and a couple of worn framed photos, the other with the digital radio alarm, gnarled old comb, a heap of quarters, three dirty glasses, blisters of painkillers, reading glasses, a couple of creased up paperbacks and a Colt 45 revolver. Evidence of two people, two lives, about as mingled and intertwined as they could get.
He placed the mug of coffee down on the far nightstand, the one that was obviously Sam’s, his eyes catching on the two framed pictures. They were the photographs the boys had gotten from their old house in Lawrence all those years ago. One of John and Mary Winchester, their happy faces beaming at the camera, John in his marine t-shirt and Mary’s long blond hair tossed in the breeze; the other of four year old Dean with his bowl-haircut and freckles, baby Sammy balanced precariously on his lap.
He stared for a long time then shook his head, made sure both photographs were exactly where they had been, and left the room.
()
They got to the hospital just after 6am. Sam had let him drive his truck, leaving the Impala in the driveway. They sat in the hospital parking lot, Sam in the shotgun seat, fidgeting with the cell-phone in his lap.
“They’d call, wouldn’t they? If there was a change?” Sam asked, for what must be the tenth or eleventh time.
“Yes, that’s what they said,” he answered.
He worried his lip between his teeth, watched a couple of people pull up in their cars, bags slung over their shoulders, resigned, weary sets to their shoulders. Staff most probably, about to start another long, too-early shift. He sighed, flexed his fingers and leaned back in his seat; his eyes felt crusty, his body weary, his back aching.
“Maybe we’d be better at your place, Sam,” he said.
Sam shook his head, sucked in his lower lip, making him look suddenly younger. “No, I want to be here. I want to be near him. If anything…” he trailed off. He craned his head around, peered through the side window. “Perhaps that other nurse will be on duty. She might let me see him.” He hesitated, fell silent again, then said abruptly: “I’m going in.”
He jerked the car door open, practically falling out onto the concrete. Bobby sighed, pulled the keys out the ignition and slid out the car. He followed Sam across the parking lot and through the main doors.
Sam’s phone went just as they were traversing one of the long corridors towards the ICU. The noise startled them both, making Bobby physically jump and Sam recoil as he stared down at the display. He sent Bobby an agonized look before he pressed the button and raised the phone tentatively to his ear.
Bobby turned his back on Sam, giving him some notion of privacy. He moved towards the tall glass windows which looked out onto the smoking shelter in the covered courtyard. There were about a half-dozen people there, even at this time of day, even with this shitty weather. He watched one guy, one skinny arm attached to a wheeled drip, the other raising the cigarette to his lips and back. He half-closed his eyes as he exhaled, emaciated, shrunken body seeming to shake with the effort. Sam stopped talking and Bobby heard his breath hitch, the sound audible and echoing in the lonely corridor. He turned around, fingers tingling, stomach doing laps.
“What did they say?”
Sam gulped; the tears already running down his face. His mouth seemed to disappear and Bobby’s breath seemed to disappear with it, fingers cramping as he rolled them into fists.
“He’s gonna be okay. They said – said he’s turned a corner. He’s responding. He’s – he’s gonna be okay, Bobby.”
()()