The Hours 5/?
A/N this chapter is dedicated to phx69, who mentioned she hadn't seen any Bobby/Sam love in this 'verse, and immediately inspired me to write some. :)
Bobby thinks he’d sell his soul to get Sam Winchester to stop crying.
He hadn’t spent too much time with the boys when they were young, but the memories he did have he knew didn’t involve all this fussing. Karen had known Mary Winchester, and had taken Dean when she’d gone into labor with Sam. Dean was an exceptionally polite little houseguest, and Karen had babied him with pie and videos. Bobby’s father had beaten the desire to have children out of him-literally-but he had thought, wistfully, that if he could be guaranteed a son like Dean, he might change his mind.
The next time he saw the boys, Karen and Mary were gone, and Sammy was just starting to walk. He was a happy, easy-going little rugrat who clearly had a case of hero worship for his big brother, even then. He’d light up like a damn Christmas tree at the sight of Dean, and start babbling away, like he was filling him in on all his amazing adventures in block-building and diaper-ruining since his brother had been out of his sight.
And Dean...well. Dean was an old soul early on, who spoke to the kid with a level of patience and tolerance Bobby’s own parents had never shown him.
As they got older, their bond just grew stronger. No matter what crap life heaped on them-and it heaped plenty-they drove forward, strove to do better, all for each other.
Watching the breakdown of their unit was somehow worse than watching his wife slip away. She’d made peace with him, with her family, and with her fate. Dean was railing against Sam’s new condition, and Sam was just weeping for God knows what reason, and for the first time in their lives, they couldn’t be all the other needed.
Currently, Bobby had both of Sam’s hands pressed together in his own, holding them down while Dean leaned into his crying brother’s vision and talked softly. The doctor was unwrapping the bandages to examine the head wound, and Bobby wished Dean would go wait in the hall so he didn’t have to see the mess of the kid’s scalp.
But of course, that was an argument he wouldn’t even start.
“Atta boy, Sammy, you’re doing real good,” Dean reassured. Sam’s hands fought in his own, wanting to break free and stop what he could only image was another perceived assault on his vulnerable skull. Bobby rubbed the kid’s hand with his thumb.
“Easy does it, sport,” he soothed. “Take it easy. We gotcha.”
Sam lets out one of those awful keening wails of his, but lies still. Bobby keeps rubbing over his hand, risking letting go long enough to pat the boy’s chest before taking his hands once more.
The bandages come off, and Dean’s face falls.
Sam’s mostly hairless, although there’s a few rough patches remaining. He has thick, black stitches lined up along his stark-white scalp, and there’s crusted blood and some other kind of muck along his head. Without the bandages, Sam looks whiter, sicker, and younger somehow, and Dean suddenly lists like he’s about to faint.
“Honey,” Ellen says, appearing like a psychic angel from around the curtain. “Come with me.”
Dean doesn’t argue. Ellen takes his arm and leads him away and Bobby can’t imagine how bad it really is for Dean to let her.
Sam lets out a mournful cry and the tears start all over. It’s like the IV channels straight to his eyes these days.
“Hey, son-look at me,” Bobby said, smiling. It was easier than it should be-he’d done this countless times with Karen, when she was half-mad with pain or chemo. “You’re alright. And so’s your brother. He’s just tired, is all. Your head is just fine. Focus on me, okay?”
Sam’s watery eyes rolled toward him, and he keened once more.
“Dean’s right outside. He’ll be back in a second. Hold on to me, okay? I gotcha. You look great, you little idgit.”
And Sam did the absolute last thing he expected him to do: he smiled.
*
Dean puked.
Dean was fairly certain he was going to be puking for the rest of his life.
Behind him, Ellen had her hand on his shoulder; her other stroked his head.
“Alright, sweetie, alright,” she murmured. Her voice and her touch were meant to soothe him, but it just made him miss his brother all the more.
Sammy, your hair is gone. Dad took your damn hair. I used to brush that shit...did I ever tell you? You’d wake up and it would stick up all over and you’d be grinning like a nutjob, standing up in your crib, and I had this little baby brush I’d use to smooth it down.
Sammy, I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. I should have been home. I should have been with you. I wouldn’t have let him do this-I wouldn’t have let him touch a hair on your head.
Sammy, I miss you so damn much.
“It’ll grow back, honey. It’ll grow back.”
“I wasn’t home,” Dean sobbed, swaying with exhaustion and grief. “I wasn’t there.”
“You saved him. You brought him here. Honey...you need sleep.”
“No.”
“Yes. You’re exhausted.”
“No.”
“I want you to let me or Bobby bring you to ours. The other will stay with Sam. He’ll understand.”
“He needs me.”
“He needs you well.”
Dean’s sick and tired and too damn vulnerable to check himself. “I miss him,” he gasped. “I want to tell him...tell him I miss him.”
Ellen reached over his shoulder, flushed the toilet, and pulled him into a hug. “I want you to let me take you home.”
“I want him to come with me.”
“He will. Just not right now.” She patted his back. “I know how hard it is, sweetie, I do. I had to go home without my Billy so many nights. But I had to sleep to be there for him. And you have to now too.”
“I can’t-“ Dean suddenly sagged against her, and he couldn’t help it if he’d wanted to. “I love him so much...”
“I know, sweetheart,” she murmured, stroking his head. “We know. We do too. And we love you. And you need to let us do this for you now.” She patted him on the back. “You’re gonna come home with me, and get some real sleep, and Bobby’s going to stay here and take as good of Sam as you could. Hear?”
Dean nodded. “I...I gotta say goodbye though.”
“Of course.”
He got to his feet, still shaky, and let Ellen lead him back down the hall to his brother’s hospital room. Dean paused, bracing himself for a sobbing, heart-broken little brother, but Sam was relaxed, with fresh gauze around his head, holding one of Bobby’s big hands on his stomach while the grumpy old guy talked in a voice gentler than Dean had ever heard out of him.
“-sick to understand, sometimes. She’d just look at me. So I got the hang of it. Like right now, I know all you want is to go to sleep, but you’re waiting for Dean so he’ll know you’re okay.”
And against all odds and logic, Sam smiled. Dean’s throat filled. Sam turned, saw Dean, and his smile wavered, than broadened. And Dean’s chest tightened.
“Hey,” he managed, forcing a grin. Sam forcibly kept his own as his brother crossed the room, curled one hand over his upper arm and the other over his shoulder. “Listen, bud...I’m gonna go and crash for a few hours. Bobby’’ll be here. You think you’ll be okay?” Sam keened a little, leaned into the hand Dean had on his face. Dean reached up and rubbed his thumb over his brother’s temple. “I’m coming back. Before you know it. And Bobby’s not gonna let Dad anywhere near here. Alright? Promise I won’t be long.” He smiled, his eyes full of tears. “Will you try and get some sleep? I will if you will.”
Sam shed a few tears, but he looked at his brother, weakly squeezed his hand, and slowly let his brother go. It’s a huge sacrifice, and the whole room knows it. Dean’s voice cracks when he says “I miss you already, buddy.” He leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss on his brother’s forehead, and a second on the back of his hand, patted his belly, and walks away as fast as he can: before he regrets it, Bobby knows. Sam cries as soon as he’s gone, and Bobby moves into his vision.
“Hey now,” he murmurs, wiping the kid’s face with Kleenex. “Your brother’s not even out the door. And he’s gonna come back: you know he is. You both need to get some sleep. Too many Oscar performances going on these days.”
Sam looks at him, really looks at him, and lets out a mournful keen. Bobby lays a hand over his heart.
“I know, son,” he soothes. “You’re not really getting’ what we say, huh? That’s gonna get easier. Promise.”
Something in Sam’s eyes shifts: Bobby sees it. All this time, and the one thing no one had said to the kid was that they get that he’s not running on a full tank. Dean was fiercely denying it, and Ellen was cooing and babying like Sam was on a level of infancy, and no one had said that Sam was still there, just momentarily impaired.
Bobby felt a sudden swell of confidence realizing he’d hit the right nerve.
“Hey, kiddo-this is temporary. You hearin’ me? You’ve got a balloon around your brain, basically. It’s gonna drain. I know you’re in there, don’ know how much you’re gettin’ this, but I’m tellin’ you, you are gonna be fine. You’re gonna hear, and see, and walk and talk just like before, just as soon as that brain drains.” He smiles and pats the boy’s cheek.
And, for the second time that day, Sam smiles-weakly-back.
*
Sammy may not remember burning his hand, but Dean does.
Dean does, because he wasn’t paying attenttion. He was playing with his stupid fake car and Sammy got hurt.
Sammy got hurt, because Dean wasn’t paying attention.
He wonders if that’s what happened to his Mom too: if Dean had noticed something was wrong, would she be gone? Would Sammy have to have him, instead of her? Would Dad be so sad?
Dean crawls out of his own bed and tip-toes down the hall to the baby’s room. Sammy’s on his side, hands curled into fists, the little burn on his palm shielded by his tiny fingers. Dean reaches through the bars to touch his belly and feel the unending rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall of his little brother’s breath.
*
Dean woke in the Singers’ guest room, sun streaming through the white curtains, the bed across from him empty. He felt better than he had in days. Dragged himself up and into the shower, feeling tension rolling off him with the drip-drip-drip of the warm water.
But it wasn’t Sammy he was washing off: it was doubt.
He’d been fretting, since it happened, whether or not he could be for that kid what he’d been before, if Sammy was so severely altered. And a few hours away confirmed what he’d suspected: that Sam, in whatever form he was in, was still all Dean needed. He’d take his crying, whining, damaged brother over no brother at all.
He missed him, missed him so deep and hard it hurt, and he’d been asleep for most of their separation. Because Sam was his Sam was his Sam was his Sammy. Was his little brother, who loved and needed him, and Dean would take that over anything, over everything.
Because he knew without a doubt, that if it was him in that bed, Sam would be next to him, giving him more love and attention and devotion than Dean could ever imagine for himself. That was who and what Sam was: kindness and love and devotion brought to life.
Dean couldn’t fail him now.
When he finally drifted downstairs, Ellen was in the kitchen, readying her oven mitts and nodding to the coffee pot.
“I’m trying something new,” she explained. “They’re like Hot Pockets, but with pie.”
“Dear God, Ellen. You may have just solved world war,” Dean grinned.
“I’m really not a baker. You’d of had to talk to Karen for that,” she teased. “When she and Billy were feeling up to it, we’d have meals together. I’d do the cooking and she’d do the baking the men would do the drinking. It sounds old fashioned but really, both the boys, God love them, weren’t equipped to handle a hot-pot, let alone a stove. And it gave us time to chat.”
Dean sipped his coffee and eyed her, carefully. “You really liked her, huh?”
Ellen nodded and scooped the amazing smelling treats onto a plate. “Wish I’d known her longer. She and my Billy were sick at the same time, so I only know what she was like before from Bobby. We were different-she was more...girly, and more of a homemaker, but so strong, and so...faithful. I miss that the most. She always believed it would all work out.” She smiled, lovingly. “Think we all need that. Right?”
Dean’s breath hitched as he smashed the side of his fork into one of the pies and watched the steam curl away from the crust. “I can’t just...put him somewhere, Ellen. He wouldn’t do that to me.”
“I know,” Ellen soothed. “And you know what I’d say to him.”
“To do it?"
“To treat our home like his own. To care for his brother as he saw most fit.” Ellen’s breath hitched. “We bear responsibly in this, Dean. We saw children needing help, and we didn’t do what we should have, which was go to court to petition for custody. I thought...you needed to leave in your own time. But not at the expense...” her voice hitched.
Not of Sam. Not of you. Not of your health, your wellbeing.
Your safety.
Your bond.
Dean knew the Singers got them, in a way so few did. It was Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. No compromise.
And, fortunately, from the Singers, no judgment.
“You know...I wanted Sammy to have some memory of a Mom. And you’re the best he’s ever had,” Dean said, smiling, and meaning it. Ellen smiled back.
“Bet Bobby’s raising hell,” she said, and Dean had to smile, “and isn’t even sure why,” and he laughed, even his chest hurt, just a bit, at the reminder half their family was missing.
*
Sam Winchester trying to be brave was breaking Bobby’s damn heart.
He was, very clearly, trying not to cry when Bobby spooned Jello out of the bowl for him. He was trying not to look toward the door when the older man wiped his face. He was very definitely not ashamed when Bobby called for a new catheter bag.
Most of all, he was not clinging to the hem of his flannel shirt, like if he held it tight enough it’d grow his brother for him.
“You know what we’ll do when you’re feeling up to it?” Bobby asked, rubbing soothing circles over the kid’s stomach, “we’ll go on a road trip. You and me and Dean and Ellen. Just like a real dysfunctional family should. We’ll have a beer by the side of the road and stay in crappy motels and you and your brother will fight about the space in the backseat and I’ll play bad music all the way.”
Sam forced a smile, though Bobby could tell by his eyes he wasn’t getting most of it. But he wanted to be good. Wanted to show he was fine with his big brother taking time off.
It had never been hard to see why Dean was just plain nuts for this kid.
“Hey, sport,” Bobby murmured, chancing a light hand against Sam’s cheek. “You don’t have to be strong for me. I’m here for you, hear? I’d lay down my life for you, kid. You don’t have to worry about a few tears.”
Sam swallowed, hard, and closed his eyes. Something was happening: something in his muscles, this throat, his jaw. The kid was working, striving to make something happen, and it wasn’t coming easy.
“Hey, son-”
“D...D...Dee...D’n,” Sam managed, with what appeared to be a Herculean effort. He looked up at Bobby, beaming, and damnit to hell but the old man got it.
“You want to surprise your brother with that, huh?” he laughed, trying hard to keep his own tears in check. Sam beamed up at him. “Goddamn, your our own little Einstein, boy. How about we try ‘Bobby’ next?”
*
Dean hates to admit it, but Ellen was right. He feels worlds away from where he was when he left the hospital the first time.
Sleep, beer, and pie. Somehow a cure-all.
Ellen smiles and greets Sam with a “hi sweetheart,” and a kiss to the cheek. She fusses with his blankets and pats his chest and makes a general, over-the-top, Victorian-mother display of her love for him. Then she steps aside for Dean, only to be blocked by Bobby.
“Sam has something he wants to say,” he announces, eyes damp.
The younger Winchester swallows, hard. Moves his jaw, his tongue, his throat. Balks, looks to Bobby, than to Ellen, than to his suddenly frozen and pale big brother.
“D-D-Dean-‘ere.” Sam swallowed, still struggling. “S-s-still-hu-hu-here.”
And it’s not Dean’s fault the floor hits his knees. It’s not Dean’s fault he ends up half laying over the kid’s chest, gasping “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” while his brother misses his head in an effort to pat him and stumbles out “D-D-Dean, ‘ere, ‘ere, s-s-still,” over and over and over.
It’s all the Singers, damnit. And Dean loves the hell out of them.
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