By: Karen B.

Previously: The door immediately jarred open and out fell…


"Holy shit," Sam and Dean said in unison jumping back out of the way.

An old lady crashed to the floor, motionless. She had pouty red lips and was wearing penny loafers, a flowered green housecoat a straw garden hat and smelled like mothballs.

"Well, lookie here. Please tell me that's a hoax, Mr. Know It All." Dean used the toe of his boot - testing - giving grandma's penny loafers a little nudge.

"Dean, that's the same lady from the pictures upstairs."

"Pickle Bill really pickled his mother? Or is she plastic?" Dean snarked sarcastically. "Either way why keep her very well in her metal pumpkin shell?" Dean swallowed down hard. "That's just sick, man. Like…blow-up doll, sick. Why the hell do we always get the round pegged, square holed crazies?"

Sam squatted down next to the old woman and reached out a hand to touch her cheek. "Not so plastic." He looked seriously up at Dean. "She's been stuffed."

"Ewe," Dean gagged. "How could you empty out your own mother's organs, blood, guts, woman parts and stuff her with preservatives."

"We better…" Before Sam could finish, grandma 'not so plastic' sat bolt up, grabbed hold of Sam by the arm and threw him across the room like he was a paper doll.

"Ah." Sam crashed into a stack of cardboard boxes that came down around his ears.


Grandma was quick. Barreling across the room. Sam was on his back trying to get up when she slammed into him like a linebacker sending them both through the open office door.

Dean would have thought it comical, a ninety-two year old lady kicking Sam's ass - except this old lady had the strength of twenty men - and all twenty men were whaling on his brother's face

"No, no, no!" Dean bellowed his alarm. Sawed-off locked and loaded, he bolted toward the room. "Shit." He slid to an abrupt stop when a chattering, renegade squirrel leapt off its wooden stand to block his path, bushy bristled tail flicking back and forth angrily. Damn thing stared him down like a gunfighter itching to put someone in the dirt, small menacing eyes never leaving his. Crap, in the world of make me crazy granny could posses more than one thing at a time. Figures. Dean rolled his eyes. "Out of my way, you filthy animal." He went to kick the squirrel, when the chatterbox leapt off the floor and bit into his left thumb, stubbornly hanging there.

The squealing squirrel muffled Dean's cursing and Sam's grunts of pain coming from the office. Dean flicked his thumb wildly. Dancing in circles. Desperate to evict the rodent's long teeth from his flesh. One more good shake of his arm and the animal was sent reeling to the other side of the room and fell to the ground, stiff and dead - as it should be.

Thumb dripping blood, Dean quickly recovered. Squirrel damage was nothing compared to the damage his brother was going through. Sam and grandma still rocking, rolling and slamming into one office wall after another.

Sawed-off in hand, Dean raced toward the office.

A gunshot splintering the air brought Dean up fast and short.

"Fudging hell!" Dean skidded to a halt, whipping around to see a stout, beer-bellied man wearing a wool cap standing only three feet from him.

"Drop your gun," the man ordered in a gritty voice, lowering his rifle that was pointed at the ceiling and aiming the muzzle at Dean's chest.

Dean hesitated, recognizing the man as the owner Pickle Bill. He gave a sidelong look through the office door, not seeing Sam, but hearing his brother's painful grunts and groans

"Drop it or I shoot, you cotton pickin' thief."

"Didn't see any cotton, and I'm no thief." Dean's trigger finger itched, but no matter how badly Dean wanted to pull - cold steel trumped sodium chloride every time.

"A funny thief," Bill drawled out, unimpressed. "We'll see how much your ass is laughing when I haul it down to the sheriff's station." Bill eyeballed Dean fiercely. "The bag too, drop them both now," he ordered, waving his gun threateningly.

"Shit." Dean stomped his foot in frustration. Slowly - eyes all the while on the man before him - Dean bent down to set the gun by his feet and let the duffle fall off his shoulder thumping to the floor.

"Look," Dean started, cringing when he heard a loud crash come from the other room. "I said, I'm no thief. You got a real problem here.""Looks more like you're the one with the problem, kid." Bill lifted an eyebrow. "Tell your buddy to stop trashing my office and get his no good thieving ass out here."

"Sammy," Dean called out, worry twisting through his gut when the rumble in the office had turned silent.

"You come on out of there, boy," Bill directed toward the office, keeping his aim on Dean. "Or I shoot your partner here."

No response.

"Fine, then." Bill moved sideways in quick strides toward the office, suddenly slowed, then stopped cold all together.

Stuffed grandma stood in the office doorway, staring at Bill. Smiling eyes soft and caring and looking at Bill the only way a mother could. "What the shit?" Bill screeched.

"Told you," Dean replied sharply. "You got bigger problems," he said, wishing he could get to Sam, but Bills gun was still pointed at his chest. The guy's trigger finger trembling against the hammer.

"Mom?" Bill started to shake, looking like he was on the verge of passing out. "This can't be real," he muttered, breath surging in and out his open mouth. "That's. Oh, my, God," his voice trembled. "Th-that's impossible."

"Believe me it's not," Dean told him. "Now put your gun down and back away."

Ignoring the warning, Bill took three steps forward, toward his mother. "Mom?" His eyes were on his mother, gun still pointed at Dean, finger still twitching against the trigger. "I…she…how can she be alive?"

"Bill." Dean cringed, guy was loosing it. "Relax. Easy. She's not alive. You stuffed her didn't you? Like you did to all the animals in this place."

"It's…yes." Bill held tighter to the rifle.

Grandma's smile faded and her eyes took on a dark hard glare, moving quick and in an unnatural way to stand before Bill.

"What the shit," Bill whispered, lowering his weapon.

"I know. It's not normal, right." Dean kept his voice calm, slowly reaching down toward his sawed-off. "She…your mother, is a disturbed spirit. A ghost."

"Ghost?" Bill frowned.

"A seriously pissed-off ghost." Sam appeared, just inside the office doorway, frazzled, a dark blue ring forming around his left eye and looking like he was having a bad hair day.

Dean's gaze slid over and made contact. "Sam?"

"I'm good," Sam croaked, tapping a flattened hand against his jacket pocket.

Dean understood the unspoken gesture right away. "Bill," he reached into his own pocket, "You need to get away from her. Right now."

Grandma and Bill continued to stand stock-still before one another, mesmerized, tense and edgy.

"I…I preserved her be-because…she…I," Bill stammered, not taking his eyes off the old gal. "I didn't …I didn't want her…I didn't want you cremated or lying in a box," he told his mother."

The old lady cocked her head toward Bill, frowning.

"I don't think mommy dearest is too happy about that, Billy," Dean said snidely. "Let's skip the mommy's boy thing. Step away from her," Dean ordered in a cautionary tone, palming his lighter in his hand." Let us do what we came here to do."

"Which is?" Bill reached a hand out to touch his mother, but quickly changed his mind, letting his hand fall away.

"Put her to rest," Dean said lightly, glancing at Sam who no longer stood in the doorframe, but was advancing forward in snail-like movements toward the old lady.

"H-how?" Bill's lower lip quivered.

"Burn her," Dean replied coolly, attention darting from Sam to granny then Sam again.

Bill's mouth dropped open. "She's my mother."

"Not anymore," Sam said inching closer.

"Bill, you're mom is not your mom anymore," Dean reminded. "She's a ghost. Embodying the things you stuffed. I don't think she's very happy about that. If you don't back-off and let us help you right now she's going to…"

Bill's mother snarled, the sum of all things evil and dark distorting her face.

"Son of a…Bill run!" Dean warned.

Bill dropped his rifle and turned to run, but his mother had a hold of him and snapped his neck before he ever took a step and he fell dead to the floor.

Sam lunged forward squirting lighter fluid in grandma's face, on her garden hat and down the front of her flowered dress.

She screeched, grabbing hold of Sam's neck, wrapping both hands around, and viscously squeezed hard.

"Guh," Sam choked.

"Incoming." Dean dropped to his belly and rolled. He came up to one knee right at grandma's feet. "If you were fifty years younger I might have looked up your dress," Dean joked, lighting the hem of the old woman's green dress on fire.

Grandma immediately let loose her hold on Sam, who collapsed to the floor, ducking his head and raising an arm to shield his eyes. The old gal screeched, a whirl of flames engulfing her.

Seconds later, an orange burst sent dust and ash flying up into the air, then floating to settle quietly on the floor.

"You okay?" Dean knelt before Sam, pulling his arm down and peering into Sam's eyes.

"Guess so," Sam rasped.

"Not the answer I was looking for, buddy," Dean said, eyebrows scrunching together with concern.

Sam shivered, streams of sweat rolling down his face.

"Dude, you're shaking like you've been laying on a bed of magic fingers for too long." Dean gently eased Sam forward, dabbing at a small cut above his right eyebrow with his jacket sleeve. "Grandma Moses kicked your ass."

"I'm okay, Dean." Sam's mouth muscles twitched as he got to his feet with Dean's help. "We got to get out of here now." He started gathering up their weapons, moving stiff and slow.

"You look bad." Dean shouldered the duffle bag.

"Of course I do. Just went ten rounds."

"Dude she was old."

"She had attitude." Sam staggered out of the room and up the stairs.

"Yeah, she did have that." Dean fell behind Sam.


They'd only driven a short way down the road away from the shop, before Dean decided they needed to stop so he could recheck Sam's wound and clean the Jackalope puncture out better. He pulled in behind a billboard sign advertising a burlesque show.

Sam swallowed the two Tylenol tablets Dean handed him and leaned heavily back in the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean continued to wash out the wound with holy water by the light of the Impala's dashboard and the blinking pink neon billboard. The Jackalope combined with grandma's meddling had caused the wound to open wider, and ooze more blood.

"Uh," Sam whimpered, instinctively trying to shrug away from Dean's menacing touch. "Man, just leave it, Dean. You're making it worse."

"Dude, sit still. Let me finish cleaning and get your shoulder wrapped back up."

"Dude, we have to get farther away before morning. Cops will be…gaw damn it, Dean." Sam went completely rigid, biting into his lower lip.

"Sorry, pal." Dean finished binding Sam's shoulder with white medical gauze he'd gotten from their first aid kit under the seat. "Had to tie that tight. Stop the bleeding."

"Like I was saying." Sam took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "It will be morning soon. Someone's going to find Bill's body and the cops will be crawling all over this place in a few hours. Gotta get moving." He cleared his scratchy throat, trying to relax the achy, feverish feel that was slowly creeping over him.

"I'm not worried about the cops, Sammy." Dean lay two fingers along the side of Sam's neck "We'll be long gone before they find Bill's body," Dean said, his face etched with worry, staring intently at Sam. "Damn it."

"What?" Sam sniffled, wiping his jacket sleeve under his runny nose.

Dean let his hand fall away. "I don't like how fast your pulse is," Dean mused more to himself.

"Adrenalin, Dean."

"Maybe." Dean pressed his palm to Sam's forehead. "You're pretty hot."

"Rrrrr," Sam cleared his throat. "Which?"

"Which what?"

"Which am I? Pretty or hot?"

"Shut up," Dean ordered seriously. "How's your shoulder feel?"

"It's nothing." Sam coughed and wiggled about. "But you can ask me how my stomach feels." He shivered, his voice growing hoarser by the minute.

"How's your stomach feel?"

"Feels…" Sam slouched further in the seat. "I don't know," he grimaced, pressing a hand over his belly.

Dean drew back. "I don't like this. Something's wrong."

"I gotta lay down." Sam groped and fussed about until he eventually got his long legs curled into a tight ball, laying his head on Dean's lap.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, one hand draped over Sam - safeguarding - the other digging in his jacket for his cell.

"Wha' doing?" Sam moaned.

"Calling Bobby."

"Good idea."

"You worse?" Dean curled the backs of his fingers against Sam's cheek.


"Pretty too." Dean scrolled down to Bobby's number, and hit dial. Damn it, Sammy," he whispered in frustration glancing down at Sam. Kid looked worse by the second. Damp, limp and hot, curling in on himself and moaning softly. "Whatever this is, Sam, it's hitting you hard and fast."





"Friggin' pick up," Dean said through clenched teeth, pulling Sam's wet hair out of his face.




"Nu' 'ome?" Sam slurred.

"It's a flippin' cell, Sam, he doesn't have to be …."

"This is Bobby."

Bobby," Dean yelled. "It's about damn time."

"Talk to the phone. The face ain't home." Bobby hung up.

"F..f-freezing." Sam trembled.

"Shit." Dean contorted in his seat shrugging out of his jacket.

"Get hol' him?" Sam wheezed and hacked.

"No. Yeah. He hung up on me, bro."

"He's still pissed," Sam breathed out nearly in a whisper.

"Pretty much." Dean hit redial, draping his leather over Sam and tucking it in around him best he could. "Don't you run out on me, Sammy. Don't you do it."

"Not running anywhere," Sam coughed, "Even if wanted to."




"Hello," Bobby answered.

"Bobby, don't hang up it's Dean."

"To the best of my recollection, I don't recall no Dean."


"Bobby, you stupid fool." Dean punched send again, this time setting it on speaker.



Bobby answered, "Joe's Crab Shack," he drawled. "We catch 'em, you scratch 'em."

"Bobby!" Dean bellowed. Sam flinched, nearly falling to the floorboards. "Easy, Sam." Dean gripped his shoulder holding him in place. 'Bobby, listen to me, man."

Bobby continued to talk in a gruff tone, ignoring Dean's plea. "Joe's not in. After the beep, think about your name. Think about why you're calling, and I'll think about returning your call, ya igit."



Dean hit send.

"Dean, feel really sick," Sam rocked his head back and forth against Dean's thigh.

"Going to take care of you, Sam."



Bobby answered, "Don't want none."


"Mother fu…"

"Pay back," Sam gave a weak, wet sounding chuckle.

"This isn't funny, dude, you're scaring the hell out of me. You're sheet-white and burning with fever." Dean frantically called Bobby again.

Sam's chuckling was cut off by a bout with the shakes.



"Son of a bitch, Sam, don't do this to me." Dean pulled back the jacket trying to get a peek at Sam's bandage. "Fuck,' he swore under his breath. "You're bleeding again." He pressed the cell between ear and shoulder, completely distracted and barely keeping the device in place as he pushed his hand against Sam's wound.

"Guh." Sam winced.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay."



"'Em fine," Sam struggled weakly.

"This is Bobby," Bobby answered, sounding much older than he was. "Way back in the day before the invention of fire and the wheel, we didn't have no fancy schmancy thing-a-ma-bobs like cell phones."

"Oh, for..." Dean juggled the phone nearly dropping it to the floorboards as he tried to keep pressure on Sam's shoulder.

Bobby continued his pissy rant, "You damn disrespectful igits just had to call and keep on callin' and callin' from a rotary dial telephone, until the poor sap got home and gave a shit to answer."

Getting a firm grip on his cell, Dean took in a deep breath and bellowed, "Bobby!" As loud as he could. "Don't, man. Don't hang up on me. Don't you dare," he screamed.

"Boy," Bobby dropped the act, "Don't you dare yell at me like that. Given you a taste of your own juice. You ever prank call me again like you did before and I'll…"

"No prank. Not yelling at you," Dean yelled. "I'm yelling for you. Bobby. We need your help. It's Sam. He's…". Dean almost dropped the cell tucking his jacket around his brother's shuddering shoulders.

"Sam?" Bobby questioned in a serious tone. "Okay. Just calm down, son. Tell me what's going on? You get the thing that was haunting Old Bill's shop?"

"Long story short, we got the crabby bitch," Dean growled stroking Sam's hair back.

Sam groaned and coughed at the same time, chills racking his body and the heat pouring off him reddened his face

"Sh, Sammy," Dean soothed. "Look, Bobby, Sam was attacked by one of Bill's stuffed pets. Wound's not that bad, but ever since…he's sick…really sick."

"What got the kid?" Bobby questioned in a cool, calm and collected tone.

"A Jacklope," Dean informed. "I know they don't exist, some sort of diseased rabbit is all they…"

"A Jacklope, boy, did you say Jackalope?" Bobby interrupted, sounding almost frantic.

"Yes, sir."

"Balls," Bobby hissed, and Dean could hear Bobby slamming things and fumbling about on the other end of the line.

"Ugn." Sam swung a hand up groping for Dean.

"Easy. Right here, little brother." Dean took Sam's hand and held it tight.

"Balls! Where'd I put that, book," Bobby's voice faded in and out.

Dean's worry amplified. "Balls, Bobby? Balls? What the hell does that mean?"

"Mean's those screwy rabbits get their meat hooks in you, you got two ways you could go," Bobby said, the sound of paper rifling, telling Dean the man was searching one of his many books.

"Two ways?" Dean glanced down at Sam who'd gotten visibly sicker. He was sweating more and gripping his stomach with both hands. Two ways. What two ways? You mean dead or alive?" Dean screeched. So far Sam was alive, but by the looks of him not for long. "Bobby what are you saying?" Dean demanded, hoping there was a third way he didn't know about.

"Boy, those things are nasty S.O.B.'s . They bite you…you get the worst case of the flu you can imagine. They stab you with their horn you…" Bobby stopped.

"You what?"

No response. Only pages flipping madly.

"You what, Bobby?"

Still nothing.


"You croak, okay, Dean."

"God," Dean whispered, staring helplessly down at his quivering brother. "Bobby it stabbed Sam in the shoulder with its horn. I cleaned the wound."

Sam lay plaint in Dean's lap, barley moving now or making a sound, sweat pouring off him to soak Dean's thighs as if the kid was boiling from the inside out.

"Don't matter none how good you cleaned the wound." There was a loud thump, sounding like the phone on the other end got dropped.

"No, no, no." Dean squeezed his eyes shut his head bumping back against the seat. "This is crazy. Crazy." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter trying to wish this whole night into a dream. Sam's weight, hot, limp and shivering against his thighs was all too real. "Damn it." Dean's eyes snapped open, temper flaring. "I'm not losing my brother over some friggin' Bug's Bunny with horns, Bobby. We have to do something. I can do something. Have to do something," Dean panicked, but all he could do was sit there and hold Sam close. Deep inside, hating himself knowing there was nothing he could do. His temper rose again. "Come on, Bobby! There has to be something, you always find something."

"Balls," Bobby's voice broke back in.

"Stop with the balls already, man, we have to help Sammy."

"Kid, I'm so sorry. I've been a damn fool …"

"No." Dean shook his head, misery washing over him as he tugged Sam closer. "No, Sam."

"Boy, pull yourself together and listen. Sam's going to be okay," Bobby snapped.

"What?" Dean snapped back.

"Got the lore ass-backward. My wrong. It's the bite that'll make you croak. Stab with the horn will only give Sam the worst case of the flu he's ever had."

"You're wrong? Ass- backward?" Dean questioned, his voice trembling.

"Your IQ drop, boy? I said, Sam's going to be okay."

"Sam's okay. Sam's okay. He's okay," Dean rambled, emotionally drained he slumped in his seat. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

Sam groaned and suddenly sat up arms pinned at his side, eyes watery peering at Dean.

"Sam, you're okay. Going to be okay," Dean's voice raised two octaves.

"Dean," Bobby called loudly through the phone. "Just get the kid back here. Plenty of rest and liquids."

Ignoring Bobby, Dean asked Sam, "Are you feeling any better?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and swooned.

"Dean, you copy?"

"Sam's got the flu, Bobby," Dean said almost giddy as he tried to hold Sam steady.

"I know that you moron. He'll be okay."

Sam bent forward and gagged vomit to the floorboards. "Whoops," he slurred, sitting up and peered sorrowfully at Dean.

"Dude, you understand that's wrong?" Dean nearly puked himself, looking at the pile of vomit on the floorboards.

"Yes," Sam simply said as he wiped his mouth, then gagged again.

"Out. Out. Time to get out." Dean reached across Sam, desperately fumbling in the dark, seeking the door handle. "I got it." His hand slipped. "Got it." He gripped the handle tight.

"Asshats," Bobby's voice floated weakly from the phone. "What's going on now?"

"Sam's blowing chunks. I gotta go." Dean dropped the phone and swung the car door open. "It's okay, bro. I got you. "Dean held Sam by the belt as he hung half-out of the Impala and puked his guts up onto the gravel.

When Sam was done, Dean hauled him back inside and shut the door.

"Better?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Not so much," Sam moaned, flopping back against the seat, looking completely pale and miserable.

"You're going to be okay, Sam. Jackalope gave you the flu, nothing more." Dean grimaced at the heavy pungent odor drifting up from the floorboards. "Oh, man." He rolled the driver side window down all the way.

"Sick." Sam edged over to the passenger door and leaned his head against the cold glass. "Made a mess."

"Happens when you throw up in the car, bro." Dean reached back over the seat bench and grabbed an old jacket. "You can clean it later when you feel better." Dean dropped the blanket over the pile of vomit, covering the smell and the site. "Just cover up the mess for now."

"No, Dean," Sam panted and squirmed, averting his eyes down. "I made a mess that I can never cover up."


"Of everything." Sam tried to compress his body closer to the door. "Made a mess." Sam shivered, his head wobbling on his shoulders.

"Told you, happens when you puke, bro."

"Not what I mean, Dean." Sam tensed biting down hard on his back teeth.

Dean winced, obviously knowing what Sam meant.

Dean squinted, searching around the dark interior until he found a half-drunk bottle of water. "Drink this."

Sam shook his head, refusing to take it. "Heads exploding," Sam said in a gravelly voice, shutting his eyes a moment, but they opened back up quickly "I'm sorry," he said, holding Dean's eyes.

"Sam, don't ever be sorry. Don't you ever be!" Dean chastised. "Now drink." Dean forced the bottle into Sam's

Sam blinked at the bottle a few minutes then took a small sip, handing the water back to Dean when he was done.

"I'm telling you right now, little brother…" Dean capped the bottle an set it aside, taking Sam. "Come here." He tugged. Sam slid stiff and slow across the seat. "Listen to me good." Dean shouldered Sam against him. "Dad was forced to do a lot of things. But loving us. Being our dad. You can bet your ass he was never forced into that. You need to remember that. And you know what else you need to remember, Sam?"

Sam stared at Dean, seeming interested in knowing.

"You need to remember dad could see through all the red tape and bullshit. No matter how we acted or what we did, or where we went he knew we loved him too. Can you do that. Remember that?"

"I'll try." Sam shut his eyes, his head snuggling down on Dean's shoulder.

Dean smiled. "You going to be okay till I can get us to Bobby's?"

"How long?"

"Not too long, Sam." Dean started up the engine. "Why?"

"The sicker I sit here," Sam gulped, "The longer I get." Sam said in a croaky, fevered-confused voice.

"Dude, you mean the longer you sit here, the sicker you get," Dean corrected.

"That, too," Sam mumbled, taking a few deep breaths and drifting off.

"Yeah, that, too," Dean muttered, flipping on the radio being sure to keep the volume down low:

Did they get you to trade you're hero's for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees?

Hot air for a cool breeze?

And cold comfort for change?

Did you exchange

A walk on part in the war, For a lead role in a cage?

Were 're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, Year after year,

Running over the same old have we found

The same old you were here.

How I wish, how I wish you were here.



Bobby stood in the doorway, chugging a beer. He wanted to ring both the boy's necks for what they'd put him through. And he would have, if he hadn't promised John years ago he'd watch out for them if anything ever happened to him.

Thus, Bobby had helped Dean haul Sam into the house. Got the kid washed, out of his sweat soaked clothes, into some comfortable dry ones and settled into bed.

Bobby had even gone as far as to clean Sam's chunks off the floorboard of the Impala and salvaged Dean's phone. The phone he'd dropped and left on speaker. The one Bobby had heard their entire conversation over.

Bobby took another swig of beer.

The room was dark save for the muted television's bluish shadows flickering around the room and across two sleeping faces.

Dean had fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard. Sam snoring lightly, spread slack across Dean's lap, safe and secure under his hand.

The bed was a mess. Rumpled blankets. A dozen balled up Kleenex, juice cups, an empty Tylenol bottle, collection of wet wash towels, crumbled crackers and a jar of Vicks.

Bobby took another swig of beer. He worried about the boys as if he was their father. Hell, as if he was their mother too. All of the time he worried. Sunrise to sunset. Day in and day out. Sam and Dean always seemed to be only one step away from hell. Slow dancing with danger. Trying to save the world, only without superman's super powers. The evil in the world never let up, but neither would Sam or Dean. John had taught them well. Had loved them well, and knew they loved him too. Dean was right. You could bet your ass on that much. Bobby would have to make that point clear before the boy's headed on their way.

Still, the things this life had cost them. The sacrifices they'd made. Their dad the most recent. Just always seemed the boys found that heap of trouble and plowed headlong into it. Life wasn't fair. But Sam and Dean took what wasn't fair and made it work.

Bobby wasn't their father, but they were his boys just the same and he was damn proud of them, even if they were igits sometimes - most times.

Sam shifted, a small whimper escaping his throat.

"Hey," Dean mumbled, never opening his eyes, holding Sam tighter. "I gottcha."

A weary smile played on Bobby's lips. "You boy's make me crazy." He took another swig of beer, and silently walked out of the room, shutting the door after him.


AN: Song used - Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here.