Some days the bear gets you
Title: Some days the bear gets you.
Author: Disasteriffic Kaz
Info: Pre-series. My take on the first meeting of the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. Hurt/limp!John sick!sam protective!dean and a healthy dose of comfort, angst and mushy stuff.
Author's note: This fic was brought about as a request for dawnbarry1 and I can't thank her enough for the prompt. I had a fantastic time writing this.
Do please Review once you've read. :D Every comment and vote of support helps keep me writing. Not to mention if I've pooched anything, someone can always tell me. :P
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John Winchester crouched low behind the stunted tree, gun steady in his hands. He knew his prey was somewhere in these woods and he had a feeling it was close now. He looked around and shook his head at himself. Two short years since Mary had been taken and his entire world had changed. He felt a pang of guilt, again, at leaving his sons alone in the motel but swallowed it down. It was only for a couple days, maybe three and Dean could handle it. He was remarkably mature for a six year old. John was sure it was the memory of that night, still fresh in his son's mind. Since John had handed him his baby brother that night, Dean had never let go, like it was the last piece of his mother he was holding on to and protecting. Sometimes he wished he didn't have to push him to grow up so fast but the evil John had suddenly found in the world wouldn't care how old he was and he needed to train; to be ready.
A sharp crack of twig snapping sounded and John froze, eyes scanning through the moonlit woods. His breath fogged out before him in the newly frozen air. Winter had come to South Dakota but snow had yet to fall. He flexed his fingers around his gun, loosening stiffening joints and eased slowly back from his tree, sliding into the darkness. Old skills ingrained from his days as a Marine had not failed him once he'd started hunting the thing that had broken his family. He'd thrown himself back into that world, that mindset in self-defense. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. The old Marine adage had become his mantra, that and the words his Drill Sargent had long ago given him: Courage is endurance for one moment more. He would have the courage to avenge his wife and protect his sons.
He heard a footstep crunch softly in the dry, frozen leaves of the forest floor. It was close. He backed around the small clearing ahead of him. It would come through there he was sure. Wendigo. He said the word silently to himself, still surprised to find they were real. It'd taken him weeks of research to figure out what was hunting these woods. There wasn't much for him to find in the way of information and he hadn't been able to find anything on what exactly they were weak against. It nagged at him but he figured he was safe with the gun. After all, the thing had once been human. John stepped behind another tree, senses on high alert and felt the presence behind him a moment too late.
He spun, gun raised as pain swept across his back and fired into the preternaturally tall thing behind him. It howled and reared back as the bullets tore through its torso. It did not, however fall dead. It vanished into the trees with blinding speed and John dropped his head to the ground with a thump.
"Son of a bitch." He cursed and groaned, trying to sit up but his back wasn't cooperating. He could feel lines of fire tracing from his left shoulder across and down to his right hip. "Get up Winchester." He told himself and rolled to his side, then his knees. He breathed through the pain and forced himself to his feet, using the tree beside him for support. He could hear the Wendigo crashing through the underbrush around him, growling and hissing and the first niggle of fear worked its way through him. Bullets hadn't worked. All he'd done was piss it off.
The sounds were coming closer, coming from all around him. It was toying with him, making him aim his useless gun back and forth trying to find it. His legs were weakening. He leaned his shoulder against the tree and tried to ignore the fire in his back. He shouted in surprise as the Wendigo dropped suddenly from above him only feet away. John fell back into the frosted leaf litter and raised his gun, too slow. He'd failed in his research. He should have made sure how to kill it before coming after it. Bad intel gets you killed, he reminded himself though it was too late now. He wondered what would happen to his boys as the Wendigo reached for him, long claws glistening in the moonlight and said a silent prayer to his Mary to watch out for them.
A sharp report cut the night air. The Wendigo straightened with a screech, back arching, arms rising to the sky and John watched in shock as light erupted within its chest and flared out along its limbs. The Wendigo was consumed in the flames in moments, leaving a pile of charred bones on the forest floor. He panted in relief, lowering his gun and amazed that he'd get to see his sons again after all. John's gun arm rose back up as a figure emerged from the trees beyond the creature's remains. It was a man who looked the part of grizzled, backwoods hunter in down vest and beat up baseball cap and he held a smoking flare gun as he strode to the remains and gave them a kick. He looked over to John then and shook his head.
"Ya damned idjit. What the hell were you doing out here?" The man shoved the flare gun into the back of his belt and stalked to John, ignoring the gun being shakily aimed at him. "Hope you aint been callin' yourself a Hunter, son, cause you'll give us all a bad name. Goin' after a Wendigo with bullets." He shook his head, disgusted and held out a hand to John. "Well? You gettin' up or you plan on takin' a nap down there?"
John lowered his gun again, surprised into trusting the man and held his left hand up. It was grasped in a surprisingly strong hand and John was pulled to his feet. He gave a short cry as he straightened his back and hunched over, hands on his knees trying to breathe.
"Balls." The man pulled flashlight from his pocket and shined it over John's back, hissing through his teeth. "Tagged you good, son." He put a hand on John's shoulder and gave him an awkward pat. "What's your name?"
"What's yours?" John countered with, trying to breathe properly and lessen the agony.
"Bobby Singer." Bobby snorted and slipped John's gun out of his shaking hand, tucking it back with the flare.
"Winchester." He replied and tried to straighten again. "John Winchester. Gah." Straightening had been a bad idea, pulling at the wounds and he was grateful for the strong arm that slid across his chest and kept from falling to the ground again.
"Winchester." Bobby chuckled. "Colt's a better gun. Come on, Son."
"Car…my car's that way." John pointed East and Bobby gave him another disgusted look.
"I know where it is. I'm parked right next to you. How do you think I knew there was some damned fool out here?" Bobby got him moving in an ungainly stumble in the right direction. "Nice job on the hidden compartment in the trunk."
John startled and stared up at the man, taking in the amused blue eyes and gristly beard. "You searched my car?"
"Oh don't get yer panties in a twist, Winchester." Bobby pulled him along faster and tried not to frown at him. Winchester was looking paler by the moment beneath his mop of dark hair, green eyes glazing in pain. If he didn't get him somewhere and patch him up soon, he was going down for good.
They stumbled from the tree line twenty minutes later and John looked groggily up to see a dented and rusted tow truck with 'Singer Salvage' on the side parked next to his Impala. He realized Bobby was dragging him toward the truck and John dug his feet in, bringing them to a stop.
"N..no. My car." John was having trouble getting his thoughts to clear through the pain and blood loss. "Have to…my boys are in town."
Bobby stared at him in surprise. "Boys?"
"My sons." John tried to get them moving toward his car but only managed to twitch one leg in the right direction. "Just kids. Have to get back to them."
"You left a couple kids alone while you came out here huntin' a damn Wendigo?" Bobby growled and gave the man a shake. "How long you been gone?"
"A d-day." John replied and cursed as Bobby started dragging him to the truck again. "Dammit…no."
"Dammit yes." Bobby replied. "You tell me where they are and I'll go get 'em. Power's been out in town for over a day now." Bobby told him and felt the man jerk in surprise. "Cold knocked out the power lines. My place is the only one with the damn lights on." He got him to the passenger door and tossed it open. "You aint drivin' nowhere for a while." Bobby man-handled John up into the seat, holding him in with one hand until he shut the door.
"Have to get to my boys." John mumbled as Bobby got in the driver's side. The knowledge that he'd left them alone and without power the whole time he was gone was eating at him. Why hadn't he taken them to Pastor Jim's? Why had he left them alone and not even checked on them? "Sorry, Mary." He said softly.
Bobby watched the man hunch forward until he was resting on the dashboard, showing the bloody slashes in the back of his coat and heard the whispered apology. "You just hang on, son." Bobby started the engine and pulled the tow truck around in front of the sleek, black car. No sense leaving it out here when he could take it with them. It only took him ten minutes to hook up the muscle car and then he was back in the cab and gunning the rattling engine down the forest track.
Half an hour later, Bobby turned into his car cluttered salvage yard and up to the aging white house. He cut the engine and looked after at his passenger. The man had passed out, face resting on the dash but was still muttering in his sleep about his sons. Bobby shook his head and got out, going around and opening the passenger door.
"Come on, Winchester." Bobby gave his arm a shake. "I aint carryin' you in." He gave him another shake and was rewarded with a blurry set of green eyes blinking at him. "That's it. Out you get."
"Where?" John groaned, extricating himself from the truck and leaning heavily on Bobby.
"My house. Just outside town." Bobby got a grip on him and hobbled around the truck and to the porch with the man. "Let's get you settled and then you tell me where those boys of yours are."
John worked hard at getting his feet to move, right, left, right, left. Up the steps and into the house, he gave a sigh when the warmth brushed across his face as Bobby opened the door. He dimly took in the warm wallpaper, worn wooden floors and clutter everywhere as Bobby walked him into a spacious living room. A desk sat across one wall, piled with books and papers and under the large window a well-used couch that called to John and they headed for it. He sat gratefully, sinking into the green cushions and slipped to his side.
"You just hang on here for a minute." Bobby told him. "Lemme get the lights on in the spare room." Bobby left him there, slumped on his couch and jogged up the stairs. He pulled open the linen closet in the hall and hastily tugged out bedding, sneezing at the dust that came with it. Absently, he thought Karen would have kicked him soundly for letting the things get musty. He pushed away the pain that came with the thought and headed back down the stairs.
A quick glance in the living room showed the man exactly where he'd left him and he headed back, past the bathroom and into the small bedroom he kept there. Bobby flipped on the light and scowled, not happy about giving up his own bed to a stranger but no way was John Winchester making it up the stairs in his condition. He sighed, resigned, and quickly set about stripping the bed and redressing it. He collected some of his things from the tables and bookshelf and carried them out to his desk, depositing them in a pile and went to the couch.
"Winchester?" Bobby gave him a nudge and pulled him upright slowly.
"Mmf." John grunted wearily.
"Man of many words, aint ya?" Bobby said and chuckled, getting him standing. "Hope your boys aint unnaturally tall like you." He muttered, once more guiding the semi-conscious man and deposited him on the bed with relief. It took him several minutes to get the shredded coat off limp arms. Bobby carefully lifted the tatters of the shirt he'd found beneath up and sighed. Four long slashes cut diagonally across his back from shoulder to hip and were still oozing blood. "You're a mess, Winchester."
"Dean. Sam." John got out through gritted teeth. "I need…to get to my sons."
"Let me clean you up first…" Bobby started and startled at the hand that snaked out to grab his arm.
"No. Now." John stared up at him, pleading. "Please. They're alone."
"Ok, Winchester. Ok." Bobby pried off the fingers from his wrist and dashed out to his kitchen, grabbing a phone and the first aid kit. He shook his head when he returned and found Winchester sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to fumble his coat back on. "Stubborn idjit. Knock that off." Bobby took the coat from his numb fingers and pushed him back down on his side. "Here." He handed John the phone, wrapped his fingers around it. "You call 'em. Tell 'em I'm coming."
"Wont trust you." John said and smiled proudly. "Dean…Dean knows better."
"Dammit." Bobby raised his eyes heavenward for patience. "Alright, you tell 'em their Uncle Bobby's comin' to get em. Tell em you gave me the car, whatever you have to." Bobby pushed John back down again on his side with the phone when he tried to struggle up. "I'm gonna go get your boys now. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."
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Dean Winchester snuggled harder under the pile of blankets on the bed, his baby brother wrapped up in his arms and shivering in the dark. Dad hadn't been gone an hour when all the power had blinked out with finality. He'd run to the window to look out and seen darkness roll across the whole of the town, every light winking out one after another after another. He'd groaned, wishing he had some way to call his Dad back. Sam had sneezed loudly behind him and a moment later he'd felt the chubby little hand tugging at his shirt.
"Dean." Sam tugged harder until his big brother turned and he put his arms up. "Up, Dean." For a two year old, Sam actually had a very developed vocabulary but when he was frightened or sick, he turned into just any other two year old; pathetic and adorable. Dean lifted Sam up and let him wrap his arms around his neck, feeling the low fever with Sam's forehead tucked into his neck.
"Let's get you back in bed, Sammy." Dean had lugged the toddler back to the far bed and tucked him under the blankets. He'd filled a pot with water and set it on the gas stove, glad their motel even had one in the room, lighting the burner with a match and let it boil. He'd remembered once at Pastor Jim's when the power went out, the old man boiling water to warm the kitchen. He took a bottle of water and the box of tissues and climbed back into the bed with his little brother.
A day later and they were there still, struggling to keep each other warm in the dark. The room was freezing, frost limning the inside of the windows as another pot of water bubbled away on the stove, trying to raise the temperature and failing. It was just too cold. Sam gave a violent shiver against him and sneezed again.
"Cold, Dean." Sam mumbled into his brother's neck. "Want Dad."
"I know, Tiger." Dean shoved a tissue in front of Sam's nose. "Blow and stop getting snot on me." He said with a smirk and Sam dutifully honked into the Kleenex. "Dad'll be home soon."
"K." Sam closed his eyes and tried to crawl into his brother's skin after warmth.
The phone rang, jerking Dean out of a light doze and he fumbled to reach it, answering it breathlessly. "Dad?"
"Dean." His father's voice made him smile in relief. "How many times have I told you…don't answer the first time. Don't know…who it could be."
Dean hung his head in shame. "Sorry, Dad. Dad are you coming home now?" Dean asked, hoping. "Power went out after you left. Dad it's freezing and Sammy's sicker and…and…" Dean stopped and took a few breaths. Having his Dad on the phone finally he felt all of his six years and just wanted his Dad to hold him and tell him it was alright.
"Son, there's a man coming to get you." John told his eldest softly. "He's gonna bring you to me. He's…uh…he's your Uncle Bobby."
"We don't have an Uncle Bobby." Dean said firmly and scowled into the darkness. Dad was telling him a fib and his voice didn't sound right. He sounded weak and Dad never sounded weak.
"He is too." John said and struggled to put some authority into his voice. "Dean you need to trust him."
"Dad? Are you ok?" Dean asked in a frightened child's voice and heard his Dad sigh.
"I'm ok, son. I just…I got a little hurt and this man, your Uncle, he's taking care of me and he's coming to get you." John smiled at the snort of disbelief he heard through the phone. His eldest was no push over. "You need to do what he says. I know the power's out but it's not here. It's warm, alright? You go with him when he gets there but you keep your brother safe. You hear me?"
Dean heard him, heard what he wasn't saying, that he was trusting this man to bring them to him but he wanted Dean to be smart and be careful anyway. "Yes, sir."
"Good man." John sighed in relief. "He's coming with my car. So you make sure you see the Impala before you open that door to anyone."
"I will, Dad." Dean assured him and looked down as Sam stirred against him. "I'll take care of Sam."
"See you soon, son." John said and Dean dropped his head sadly to his brother's hair when the line went dead. He didn't wanna be the grownup right then. He wanted to be a kid and have his Dad fix everything. Dean rubbed a hand through his spiky hair and gave Sam a gentle shake. If wishes were horses his Mom used to say. "Hey, Sammy."
"Dad here?" Sam blinked blue-green eyes up at him and Dean shook his head.
"No, but he's sending…our Uncle Bobby to come get us." Dean disentangled himself from his brother and slid out from under the blankets. "He's gonna take us to Dad." As if on cue, Dean heard the familiar growl of the Impala's engine outside their room. "You stay there, Sammy. You hear me?" Sam nodded, eyes blinking owlishly above the edge of the blankets. Dean went to his pillow and pulled out the gun his Dad had him keep there. He peeked out the curtains and smiled at the welcome sight of Dad's car. A large, scruffy looking man climbed out from behind the wheel and headed for their door, ballcap pulled low over his eyes as the first snow of the year started to drift lazily down from the sky.
A knock sounded a moment later on the door and Dean went to the side of it, snicking the lock open quietly he stepped back, putting himself between it and his brother.
"It's open." He called. The door squeaked open and the strange man stepped slowly into the room. He had his hands where Dean could easily see them, eyes wide at the sight of the six year old steadily pointing a gun at him.
"Son, your Daddy sent me." Bobby spoke softly and took stock of the situation. The kid was tall for his years, spiky blonde hair and green eyes he could see in the slash of moonlight from between the curtains. Behind him, a small dark head stuck out of a pile blankets. The room felt like a meat locker, made only slightly less cold by the pot bubbling on the stove. "I'm your Uncle Bobby." He saw the kid smirk.
"That's what Dad said." Dean replied, saying without words that he wasn't buying it and Bobby chuckled, amused.
"Well I am so let's get you boys packed up and to your Daddy." Bobby pulled his vest tighter. "And somewhere warmer for cripe's sake."
Dean watched him, looking long and hard into the blue green eyes so like his brothers and decided that he kind of liked the old guy. "Ok." Dean lowered the gun and stepped back to the bed with his brother. "Sammy, this is Uncle Bobby."
"Hi." Sam said while Dean unwrapped the blankets from around him. He sneezed again, rocking forward and knocked his head on Dean's shoulder.
"He alright?" Bobby asked, concerned.
"He's got a cold." Dean answered as he pulled his brothers arms free and snagged his coat from the other bed, putting his arms into the sleeves. "And a fever."
Bobby shook his head, disgusted once more with a father who'd leave two kids this young on their own in a motel. He helped the older boy, Dean, pack the room up quickly. All the while Sam sat on the bed huddled in his coat and shivering miserably. Bags safely stowed in the Impala's trunk, Dean climbed in the front seat with his brother on his lap. Bobby revved the engine and cranked the heater, hoping to stop some of the shaking he saw from the younger kid.
"Ten minutes and we'll be there." Bobby assured him and pulled out. He wasn't sure but he thought Dean still had the gun. Hunter instinct was yelling at him that it was in the kids coat and aimed in his direction. Every time he glanced over, Dean's green eyes were on him and though he kept tight hold of his younger brother, that right arm never left his coat. Bobby snorted a nervous laugh. This kid was no pushover.
They pulled into the scrapyard and up to the house, parking next to Bobby's tow truck. "Now, Dean. Your Daddy got hurt tonight." Bobby told him and smiled. "He's gonna be fine but you need to be careful of his back. I still gotta patch him up. Damn fool wouldn't let me til I got you boys."
Dean's eyes widened but he nodded and fumbled to open his door. Bobby got out and ran around to meet him, pulling the door open. He reached in to take Sam but Dean knocked his hand away.
"I've got him." Dean said firmly, mistrust in his eyes. No matter what their Dad said he wasn't letting a stranger take Sam from him. Dean struggled out of the car, keeping tight hold of Sam and his nerves. He wouldn't feel right until he saw his Dad. They followed Bobby up the steps and into the house. It was warm, as Dad had said and he sighed in relief. Sam would be warm finally. In the back of the house, Bobby stopped and waved them into a room. There on the bed was their father, hunched on his side facing the door, phone gripped tightly in his fist.
"Dad." Dean said and went quickly to him. John blinked green eyes up at his eldest and smiled.
"Hey Dean." He reached an arm up and around his boy, pulling him in. "That my Sammy in there?" He asked, tugging at the blanket cocoon in Dean's arms.
"Dad?" Sam's head popped up and he grinned, reaching thin arms out. John made himself sit up and let Sam thump from Dean's arms into his lap. "Missed you." Sam said happily into his father's chest. John put one arm around him and the other Dean. He felt Sam trembling against him and frowned.
"He's still got that cold?" John asked Dean who nodded.
"Got worse when the power went." Dean sighed and leaned into the arm around him. "I tried to keep him warm, honest Dad."
"I know you did, Dean." John ruffled his hair and looked up to see Bobby still standing in the doorway, watching.
"I'll go make up a room for your boys upstairs." Bobby said, unnerved to have been caught standing there. He nodded and left the family alone, trudging up the stairs and to the dusty linen closet again. He'd never been much for kids but those two boys touched something in him. That Dean made him smile. That boy was grow up full of piss and vinegar he could see already. He wondered what had happened to their mother and then shook his head. He could guess, something bad, from the little Winchester had muttered as he'd slept in the truck; soft apologies and even a tear. He felt a kinship to the man and his boys without even knowing them. He grabbed a pile of sheets and blankets and headed to the room at the end of the hall.
Twin beds sat side by side, a small table between them. Bobby clicked on the light on the table and looked around the room. It wasn't much but it had beds and a dresser and a bookshelf and should be fine for the boys. He stripped off one bed and made it up quickly. He turned to strip the other and startled to find the elder son in the doorway.
"Dean?" Bobby said, wondering what had brought him up there so quietly. "You alright, son?"
Dean studied him and nodded. "Are you really our Uncle?" He asked. His Dad was still insisting this man was family, pushing him to trust him but that meant trusting him with Sam and that wasn't so simple.
Bobby laughed a friendly sound that made Dean smile in spite of himself. "Well I guess I am." Bobby pulled the old sheets off the bed and dropped them in the pile on the floor, taking up the fresh ones. "Let's see now, Uncles take care of ya, right?" He nodded to the boy. "Well I'm doing that. They give ya a place to stay. Yep got that too." He spread the sheets on the bed and then took up the thick blanket, tossing that on top. "Pretty sure Uncles are supposed to tell ya where the cookies are stashed in the kitchen too." He gave a sidelong glance at the boy and saw that amused smirk on his face again.
"Sammy likes cookies." Dean said grudgingly and saw the older man's shoulders shake with a laugh.
"Well they're in the cabinet over the stove." Bobby gave the blanket a last twitch and picked up the pile of old linens. "So why don't you get him and go find 'em while I clean up your Daddy?" He strode past the boy, dropping a hand to ruffle the spiky hair on his way past without even thinking.
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Bobby sat tiredly at his desk. It was only a few hours before dawn. It taken him near an hour to clean and stitch up the nasty slashes in John's back. They'd had a long talk, taking the man's mind off the pain and Bobby knew now why he felt such a connection with him. His wife had been taken from him by a demon as well. "Well aint it a small damn world." Bobby said softly and shook his head sadly. He felt sorry for the boys. Losing their momma that way couldn't have been easy. Probably still wasn't and no wonder John had turned Hunter and had his six year old trained to handle a handgun. He wasn't sure he entirely agreed with that but he understood.
A sniffle from the door jerked Bobby's head and he looked around, surprised to find the littlest Winchester standing there, blanket dragging behind him with a corner of it in his mouth.
"Sam?" Bobby asked. He looked at the boy and saw dark circles under his eyes and the sheen of tears on his face. "What's wrong boy? You have a nightmare?" Sam nodded and Bobby sighed. "Well come're then." Bobby patted his knee. The boy crossed the room, blanket trailing behind him still and reached arms up to the older man.
"Up." Sam said simply and Bobby chuckled. Looking down into those incredibly puppy dog eyes he didn't see how anyone was ever going to tell this kid no. He put strong hands around the kid and lifted him up to sit in his lap.
"So what were you dreamin' about?" Bobby asked him, smoothing dark brown locks back from a fever damp forehead.
"Lellow eyes." Sam said and shuddered. Bobby wrapped an arm around him.
"Shh. It's alright son." He soothed, wondering why a pair of yellow eyes would upset the kid so.
"Uncle Bobby?" Sam said and twisted his head around to see the bearded face above him. "Story?"
"Huh?" Bobby asked surprised and then laughed. "Cripes kid. I don't know any stories for kids." But Sam just kept staring up at him with those liquid hazel eyes and Bobby rolled his ceiling ward in resignation. "Balls. Alright. Hang on." He kept an arm around the youngster and leaned over to open one of the desk drawers. He dug through, sifting through papers and books until he found the one he wanted. He'd had it since he was a teenager. It was dog eared and beaten up, the cover long since lost and one of the few things from his childhood he'd held on to.
Sam bounced happily on his knee when Bobby came up with the book. Sam reached a chubby hand out and took the book carefully. Bobby was worried he was going to do more damage to it but chuckled when Sam brought the book to his face and sniffed the aged, yellow pages.
"Boy, you beat all." Bobby said fondly, ruffling his hair again and took the book, settling back in his chair. He pulled the blanket up from the floor and settled it around Sam who leaned back into his chest and waited patiently. Bobby found the first page and started reading.
"Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy." Bobby's gruff voice filled the room as he read. He wasn't ten pages in when he felt Sam give a sigh and relax against him, body going limp in sleep. He kept reading anyway, figuring his voice might keep the boy's nightmares at bay.
"Whatcha reading to him?" Dean's voice came softly and Bobby looked up to find the older brother watching cautiously from the doorway, rubbing a sleepy hand in his eyes.
"C. S. Lewis." Bobby said and shrugged. "He wanted a story." Dean smiled and came over to the desk. He took a look at his baby brother, reaching a hand to brush across his forehead and smiled to find it cooler than when he'd put him to bed. Sam was peacefully asleep in their 'Uncle's' lap. Dean looked up at the beard and the friendly eyes and gave in to just being a kid. He climbed up onto Bobby's lap, hearing a deep chuckle and pulled his brother in against him.
"Keep reading?" Dean asked, settling in with his head resting on Sam's. For a moment, he was a kid again and they were safe and there weren't monsters everywhere.
Bobby laid his arm against Dean's back, holding the book up where he could see it and laughed at himself. What the hell was he doing with two kids in his lap reading kids' books for crying out loud? He was tired but the boys were up and their Dad wouldn't be for hours yet, the painkillers would make sure of that. "Ah hell." Bobby said softly and did as Dean had asked. He started reading again with two Winchester boys snuggling in against the chest of their new Uncle.
The end.