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The first thing Dean does when he gets to Bobby's house is run a fever so high Bobby doesn't know whether to send the kid back to the hospital or douse him with holy water.
The hospital sent him packing with something strong still in his system. Opioids have been known to do more to a body than leave 'em a little warm. Plus, the docs opened him up to put a screw in his collarbone. Could be from the anesthetic. Could be pneumonia from the ventilator. Could be MRSA. Or a bad needle. No telling what kinda nasty bugs were crawling around that hospital room.
"He'll be fine," Sam says, question in his voice and hands twisted in front of his chest. The younger Winchester don’t look much better than the elder. He obviously hasn’t slept much the two days Dean was in the hospital, and his shadowed eyes stand out starkly in his white face.
As a twin, the bed's been too small for either of the brothers for at least fifteen years. Dean's ankles overhang the edge of the mattress, but it's more comfortable than the couch and quieter to be up here among the clutter than downstairs with the phones shrieking off their cradles fifty times a day.
"Ain't doing him much good with our thumbs up our asses,” Bobby grunts. “Go on and pick us up some grub. Looks like you'll be around awhile."
"Dean won't wanna stay for long," Sam protests.
"When he can haul himself down those stairs without losing his cookies I'll think about letting him leave," Bobby replies.
Sam acquiesces with a strained smile, strange and wrong on his wan face paired with the nearly permanent wrinkle of concern over his nose. Bobby watches him walk down the hall with a frown. Wasn't long ago the kid wouldn't have left his brother in such a condition if God himself came through the roof in a white robe and commanded it.
"S'm?" Dean's formless, pained huffs of breath merge into a word Bobby can understand.
"He'll be back, son," Bobby says.
"Cas?" Dean's voice suddenly clears, eyes flying open like he was ordered. He struggles to sit up but he crumbles back against the flat pillow with a cry as his ribs no doubt give him hell.
"Easy, easy," Bobby soothes, moving to the bed so he can get a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Angel's not here either. No idea where he flies off to when he's not earthbound. Peak of Mount Everest, maybe."
Dean starts shivering violently under Bobby's hand. Bobby rubs his shoulder, keeping his touch light to not aggravate the joint the doctor's had to reduce. Just one of Dean's many injuries as a result from his tussle with the demon. Alastair, Sam said was his name, but that's the only detail Bobby's working off. Along with the dislocated shoulder and broken collar bone, Dean's got three cracked ribs and a concussion.
But the crushed larynx is the most concerning. Swelled shut so bad they had him on a ventilator for fifteen hours before they could trust him to get air through himself. Bobby didn't get to the hospital until they'd already switched the boy to an oxygen cannula, but his breathing was still rough and his voice was as hoarse as a seven-decade smoker.
And now this fever.
"W-warm," Dean says through chattering teeth.
"Sure you are," Bobby says. He pulls the blanket back up to Dean's chin, where it rolled off his shoulders when he tried to sit up.
He looks like a little boy like this, minus the racoon bruising around his eyes and rust-colored scruff coming in on his jaw.
Bobby remembers when Dean was not higher than Bobby's bellybutton. One of the first times John dropped his kids on the front porch and sped off again without as much as a howdy-doo. Dean clutched Sam's hand in a tight fist, trembling in sneakers kept together with duct tape and a prayer, nose rubbed scarlet in the middle of his pale face. He could barely breathe for the congestion in his head. Sam weren't much better: eyes watery and clingy as all get out from the fever in his little body.
Bobby sent them right to bed. Same bed Dean lays in now. Bundled them up under about five pounds worth of blankets before he forced some Tylenol down their throats - crushed into a cup of instant chocolate pudding so four-year-old Sammy would stomach it. Dean was old enough to get down a pill, but swallowing hurt his throat to the point of tears, so Bobby sat in a chair by the bed, waiting for both boys to eat through their pudding one miniscule spoonful at a time.
Sam dropped off to sleep after not much longer, remnants of his baby curls damp and limp on his forehead, holding a pillow to his chest like a teddy bear.
"Dad says fevers can kill a kid as little as Sammy," Dean told Bobby at a whisper.
"Don't worry. Kids like him run fevers all the time," Bobby comforted him. "Sides, he's got me watching him, now, right?"
"Right," Dean said uncertainly.
"You just get some sleep, right, Dean?" Bobby prompted him. "Uncle Bobby won’t let anything happen to your brother. Or you.”
Bobby doesn't know why that particular memory pops into his head now. Been a long time since Dean was small enough to fit on his lap. Just a quiet thing until he warmed up to you enough so the mischief burst out.
"Is he dead?" Again, Dean's voice is startlingly clear. His left eye is bright red with a broken capillary, but both are open, wild and shiny from the fever. "S-Sam says - Sam says he's dead."
"Who's dead?" Bobby asks, resisting the urge to brush his hand through Dean's hair, knowing the man - who never suffered much physical affection even as a child without a roll of the eyes - would be even less appreciative of it now.
"Alastair," Dean says, lips wobbling around the word. Alastair. The demon. Must be a demon the two brothers had come across before, to know the name. "Sammy says - says he's dead."
"Then he's dead," Bobby says. Hell, Dean can roll his eyes all he wants. Bobby lays his palm against the boy's forehead, ostensibly checking his temperature if Dean protests. When Dean doesn't try to squirm away, Bobby leaves his hand there, gently brushing Dean's hair back from his scorching skin.
"H-he's not." Goddamn, but Bobby'd never say to Dean's face that he could whimper, but the boy could whimper. "N-not. He's always there. He - he said he's always there. In - in," Dean struggles to lift his good arm out of the blankets. He raises a trembling finger to his temple. "In my head. He's always in my head."
"Okay, Dean," Bobby shushes him. He moves Dean's hand back to the mattress, keeps it clasped in his own hand. "Calm down. You're safe. You're at my house. You're at Bobby's house and no demon's gonna get you here."
"It's my fault," Dean rasps.
"Ain't supposed to talk, son. Gotta let your throat heal up," Bobby tries to quiet him, but Dean's eyes are swimming with more than fever now. When he blinks, tears spill onto his blotchy red cheeks.
"My fault," he repeats. His good arm raises again, but this time it's to weakly grip Bobby's shirt as if to draw him closer. "He said it was - and - and Cas said -"
"I don't know what ideas that Goddamn angel's been putting in your head, but none of this is your fault," Bobby says sternly.
Dean shuts his eyes and shakes his head. A sob bubbles out of his lips and it must hurt his throat because his hand goes around his neck and the next sound he makes is a gag of pain.
"Easy, easy," Bobby presses both hands to Dean's shoulders until the kid's flat back against the mattress again. "You just calm down, now." He moves a palm gently over Dean's sternum, feeling his breastbone under his palm. He sweeps down and up again. "Just settle while the meds kick in. Just like that, boy. You just settle."
Whatever he'd wanted to tell Bobby had obviously tuckered him out, because the only noises Dean's making now is his raspy, pained breathing. His eyes stay closed, eyelashes stuck together in damp points. Dean seems to relax under Bobby's touch, so he keeps it up, sweeping his hand back and forth over his chest until Dean's face relaxes.
"You're alright, son," Bobby tells him. "Uncle Bobby's watching."