It was still raining half an hour later when Bobby eased the wrecker – and the Impala hooked behind it – off the highway and onto the road that led to Singer Salvage.

The squeak of the wipers on the windshield and Sam's slightly congested breathing as he slept against Dean mingled with the other sounds in the cab of the vehicle – the rattling of the bucket that had been moved from Sam's lap back to the passenger side floorboard after the kid had fallen asleep; the cranky grumble of the wrecker's old engine; the rumbly hiss of the tires on the wet pavement; the creaky springs beneath the torn fabric of the stained bench seat.

It was all familiar and soothing despite the lingering worry both Bobby and Dean felt over the potential seriousness of their youngest's condition.

Because if Sam really did have an inflamed appendix...

Dean sighed as the recurring fear once again crossed his mind and shifted in the seat as his wet clothes – still drenched from having stood in the rain earlier – clung to him; making him cold and uncomfortable...which was undoubtedly how Sam and Bobby felt, too, since their clothes were also saturated from the downpour.

Dean sighed once more; glancing down at Sam as the kid slept against him before glancing at Bobby behind the steering wheel; the older hunter's focus on the rain-slick road as he drove.

"Do you think he has appendicitis?"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the sudden question but didn't look at Dean; instead keeping his gaze straight ahead as the rain continued to pour and wondering how long Dean had been obsessing over the possibility of that diagnosis as they had rode in silence.

Dean blinked expectantly. "Bobby..."

Bobby shrugged; knowing he needed to tread lightly with an already freaked out big brother. "Hard to say right now," he replied. "But that pain in his right side's got me worried," he added honestly. "Kids get stomach viruses all the time, but those viruses don't usually settle in one spot like that."

Dean nodded; having expected that answer because he figured the same.

There was a beat of silence; the wipers going back and forth across the windshield.

Dean swallowed, glancing again at Sam and then back at Bobby. "What do you think we should do?"

"What we always do," Bobby responded; his tone calm and matter-of-fact. "Wait and see."

"But what if we wait too long?" Dean pressed anxiously; unable to shake the feeling that they should be heading to the hospital instead of to Bobby's house.

Bobby smiled softly at Dean's candid concern over Sam; reminded that while Dean was confident and capable, he was still just a kid himself. And right now, he was a scared kid; a big brother scared about his little brother's seemingly deteriorating health.

And anybody who knew Dean knew that John's oldest could handle anything...except something happening to Sam.

Bobby sighed, feeling Dean's gaze across the wrecker's bench seat. "We won't," he reassured about them waiting too long to see how Sam's condition progressed.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the simple answer but didn't respond; instead tightening his hold around his brother as Sam shifted and sighed in his sleep.

"Dean..."

Dean nodded that he had heard Bobby but still didn't speak; staring out the passenger side window and deciding that if Sam wasn't better by the time John arrived at Bobby's house later that night, then he was going to insist they take the kid to the hospital.

Because nothing bad was happening to Sam – not as long as Dean was around.

Dean nodded again – agreeing with his plan – and then directed his attention back to Sam; briefly palming the sleeping kid's forehead and frowning at the heat he felt there...then smiling fondly when his brother shifted again, leaning into his touch.

"And?"

Dean's smile widened at Bobby's expectant tone; having known the older hunter was watching him check Sam's temperature. "Still feverish," he reported and brushed Sam's bangs from his eyes as he lowered his hand. "You said you have children's Tylenol, right?"

"Right," Bobby confirmed. "Should be in the downstairs bathroom."

Dean nodded; picturing the cluttered medicine cabinet in that particular bathroom at Bobby's house. "Depending on how Sam feels, we might use that bathroom to clean up," he commented; thinking aloud.

"Sounds good," Bobby agreed. "No need to make him climb stairs if he don't feel like it."

"Exactly," Dean returned; figuring he could get Sam showered and changed downstairs and then get the kid settled either in the extra bedroom or on the couch. "You said you had crackers, right?"

"A whole box of 'em. And ginger ale..." Bobby added.

"Good," Dean praised; knowing the tricky part was going to be getting Sam to actually eat and drink what they had for him.

"You called your daddy yet?" Bobby asked as the wrecker – and the Impala towed behind it – bounced from the paved road to the muddy driveway that would eventually end at his doorstep.

"Not yet," Dean answered, glancing down at Sam as his brother shifted beside him; the noticeable change from the smooth asphalt to the bumpy path beginning to stir the kid awake.

Bobby nodded at Dean's response; feeling strangely pleased that he had been the first person Dean had called when the boys were in trouble – not John. And while Bobby knew Dean would call their dad later once Sam was settled, there was still a sense of satisfaction that he – Uncle Bobby – had come to their rescue while John was out doing god-knew-what.

Bobby quirked a smile to himself before glancing at the squirming 12-year old sitting between him and John's oldest. "He waking up?"

"He needs to," Dean responded bluntly. "'Cause I'm not carrying his scrawny ass inside the house."

"Yeah. Sure you ain't..." Bobby chuckled even before Dean winked at him; both of them knowing Dean would do whatever Sam needed him to do.

Dean smiled and then rubbed Sam's back; feeling the dampness of the kid's clothes from beneath the blanket still wrapped around his brother and being freshly reminded that they all needed to change. "Sammy. Wake up, kiddo. We're almost at Bobby's."

Sam hummed a sleepy response; wallowing his face against Dean's shoulder before finally blinking open his eyes and sighing.

"Howdy, sunshine," Dean greeted cheerfully; masking his concern as Sam's face instantly twisted in pain now that the kid was awake. "Sammy..."

Sam swallowed and wrapped his arms around his stomach; shifting uncomfortably on the seat.

Dean frowned; having hoped they could make it to Bobby's house without Sam needing the bucket but reaching for it now as it rested between his feet in the passenger side floorboard and shoving it back in Sam's lap.

Sam scowled weakly and cut his eyes at Dean. "Stop," he protested and pushed the bucket away. "I'm okay. I don't need it."

"Famous last words," Dean quipped and kept the bucket where it was in Sam's lap; easily resisting his brother's refusal.

Sam glared but said nothing more; swallowing again as the wrecker dipped into one of the many mud puddles lining the driveway; his queasy stomach not reacting well to such sudden movements...especially not so soon after just waking up.

"Almost there," Dean quietly soothed, noticing Sam's repeated swallowing and the way the kid was breathing through his mouth; Sam having said he didn't need the bucket but was now leaning over it.

Sam coughed and then unexpectedly dry heaved; the forceful sound echoing in the empty bucket resting in his lap.

Dean cringed as Sam dry heaved again...and then again; his body seeming to fall into an unwanted rhythm. "Easy, Sammy."

Sam gasped noisily and then reached for Dean; one hand remaining over his stomach while the other rested on Dean's leg and fisted his brother's jeans; desperate for strength and comfort as he rode out this most recent wave of misery.

"It's okay..." Dean told his little brother and rubbed the kid's back before glancing at Bobby; thankful the older hunter was keeping his gaze straight ahead through the rain-slick windshield and was thus giving him and Sam as much privacy as possible in the cramped space of the wrecker's cab.

Sam dry heaved twice more and then swallowed audibly; inhaling a shaky breath before lifting his head and looking at Dean; his expression silently pleading for his brother to make everything better as his right hand maintained a tight grip on Dean's leg.

Dean smiled encouragingly and squeezed the back of Sam's neck. "It's okay," he repeated – hoping if he said it enough both he and Sam would believe it – and then nodded at the windshield to indicate Bobby's house as it finally came into view.

Sam blinked and directed his attention forward; feeling a burst of relief at the sight of the only home he had ever known outside of the Impala and the occasional stop at Pastor Jim's house.

There was silence as Bobby brought the wrecker to a careful stop and then glanced over at the brothers as he waited for Dean's instructions; more than willing to help with Sam but knowing better than to assume such help was needed...or even welcomed.

Because whether or not Dean would ever admit it, he was worse than a proverbial Momma Bear when it came to others interfering with his care of Sam.

And Bobby had no desire to get his head snapped off.

Dean quirked a knowing smile at Bobby's hesitation. "I've got him," he assured the older hunter about Sam and vaguely gestured at the Impala behind them. "But maybe you could get our duffels...?"

Bobby nodded – glad he could help with something – and awkwardly dug the Chevy's keys from his pocket where he had stashed them earlier after he had hooked the car to the wrecker on the side of the road several miles back.

In the next instant, Bobby opened the driver's side door and ducked out into the rain that continued to pour; leaving the brothers alone in the cab of the wrecker.

Dean sighed – listening to the familiar creak of the Impala's trunk as Bobby lifted the lid in search of their duffels – and then lightly nudged his brother still sitting beside him. "Hey. You ready?"

Sam swallowed and nodded; uncurling his hand from where he had continued to grip Dean's jeans and watching as Dean reached around him; placing the bucket in the driver's seat to make more room and then opening the passenger side door.

"Gimme a sec..." Dean commented as he exited the wrecker; his boots sinking into the mud of Bobby's driveway while he retrieved the umbrella from the floorboard and opened it again in preparation of transferring Sam to the house.

Sam's attention flickered to the windshield; watching as Bobby ran up the steps of his porch – surprisingly fast to escape the rain – and then smiling as he saw who greeted the older hunter as the door of his house swung open.

"It's Rumsfeld."

Dean briefly glanced over his shoulder at Sam's mention of Bobby's Rottweiler puppy; knowing the 12-year old kid and the one-year old dog had an equal adoration for each other...but also knowing Sam couldn't handle Rumsfeld's typical rough affection right now.

Because the last thing Sam needed was a playful, well-meaning, overgrown puppy pouncing on his tender stomach with giant paws...like Rumsfeld usually did since he was already so big, and Sam was still so short.

Sam frowned as Bobby returned to the door – having dropped off their duffels somewhere in the house – and grabbed Rumsfeld's collar as the dog continued to stand in the doorway; wagging his tail and curiously looking toward the wrecker.

"Why's he holding him like that?"

Dean resisted the urge to nod his approval of Bobby restraining his dog; glad they seemed to be on the same wavelength about a sick kid and a rambunctious puppy not mixing well.

"Probably doesn't want him in the rain," Dean answered smoothly and motioned for his brother. "Come on."

Sam nodded and slowly eased across the wrecker's bench seat; allowing Dean to help him down from the vehicle and gasping softly when doing so jarred his right side.

Dean frowned; his hand hovering behind Sam's back in case the kid needed support. "You okay?" he checked; waiting for Sam to nod before closing the passenger side door and steering his brother toward the house; the rain pattering on the umbrella as their shoes squelched in the mud.

Seconds later, they were on the porch; Dean collapsing the umbrella and dropping it beside the door while pushing Sam further into the house.

"You boys get those shoes off," Bobby grumbled, having already taken off his; standing in his socks – his big toe peeking out from the hole in the seam of the right one – and scowling at the mud caked on the sides of the brothers' worn shoes. "I just mopped these floors yesterday."

"And just look at them sparkle and shine," Dean responded in amazement – 100% smartass in his tone and expression – and then chuckled as Bobby's scowl deepened.

Dean's smile lingered as he crouched to unlace Sam's sneakers – not wanting his brother to put unnecessary strain on his stomach by bending over himself – and then waited patiently as the kid grasped his shoulder.

Sam smiled shyly – grateful for how Dean always thought of everything to make things easier for him...especially when he was sick – and held onto his brother for balance as he took off his sneakers; watching as Dean then took off his boots before sliding both pairs of shoes into the corner by the door.

"Better?" Dean asked and quirked a smile as he and Sam stood side-by-side in their socks.

Bobby didn't answer but instead moved on to other matters. "I've got you boys set up in the extra bedroom for now," he informed the brothers as he closed the front door; still holding onto a struggling Rumsfeld while vaguely pointing down the hall. "Y'all know where everything is, so make yourselves at home. I'm gonna put this mutt in the kitchen and then go out and see about your car."

"He's not a mutt," Sam defended, holding his hand out toward the dog. "He's a good boy. Aren't you, Rummy?"

Dean and Bobby simultaneously rolled their eyes at Sam's nickname for the dog even as Rumsfeld eagerly licked Sam's hand.

"Mutt or not, he's still goin' in the kitchen for now," Bobby replied dryly.

Sam scrunched his face in disappointment. "Sorry, Rummy..." he told the dog and affectionately scratched behind the Rottweiler's ears.

Rumsfeld leaned into Sam's touch and grunted; his back leg shaking in pleasure as Sam's fingers dug into just the right spot.

Dean smiled as he watched the interaction between Sam and Rumsfeld; glad to see his brother happier than he had seen the kid all day.

Bobby smiled as well and lingered in the hall; allowing Sam and Rumsfeld a few extra minutes together.

Dean glanced at Bobby. "You don't have to worry about the Impala," he told the older hunter. "I can take care of her later."

Even though he certainly wasn't looking forward to that chore...

"Or I can take care of her now," Bobby countered; his tone indicating the decision was already made. "You've got more important things to take care of now...and later," he added, glancing meaningfully at Sam as the kid continued to scratch the dog's ears.

Dean nodded his agreement and then smiled his appreciation; because only family volunteered to clean up what Bobby was about to clean up. "Thanks. Really."

Bobby chuckled and shrugged. "I've cleaned up worse," he commented – resisting the urge to shudder at the reminder of that hunt a few years ago in Omaha with Rufus – and then lightly shook Rumsfeld's collar from where he still held the dog beside him. "Come on, mutt. Let's let these boys get changed and settled."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby nodded over his shoulder; once again acknowledging Dean's gratitude. "I'll be outside if you need me."

Dean returned the nod.

Sam watched as Bobby led Rumsfeld toward the back of the house. "He can come out later, right?"

"Maybe. We'll see how you feel later..." Dean countered – because if Sam was throwing up later, then no way was the dog coming out to bother the kid – and lightly pushed his brother in the direction of the extra bedroom.

"I feel fine," Sam scoffed; surprised that he actually meant it; the nausea having dramatically decreased since he had dry heaved in the wrecker. "Really, Dean," he emphasized when his brother looked at him doubtfully. "I'm fine."

"For now..." Dean added ominously – knowing it was only a matter of time before sickness struck again – and took the blanket from Sam's shoulders as they entered the bedroom; reaching for his brother's duffel as he tossed the damp blanket on the bed. "Here..."

Sam accepted his bag and yawned. "I'm tired."

"I know," Dean agreed; because anybody that had vomited as much as Sam had that morning had to be exhausted. "After you shower and change and eat..." He paused; making sure Sam knew eating was part of the plan. "...then you can sleep. Either in here or on the couch…"

Sam nodded and yawned again as he turned to leave the room.

"Don't lock the bathroom door...and don't take too long," Dean called after his brother. "And turn your clothes inside out..." he added, because Sam's hoodie and jeans had splatters of vomit from earlier. "And for god's sake, brush your teeth."

"Yeah, yeah..." Sam answered inside another yawn and disappeared into the hall.

Dean followed behind. "I'm gonna call Dad and let him know we're here and what's going on," he told his brother as Sam made his way to the bathroom. "But if you need me, then – "

" – I'll send up a Bat signal..." Sam interrupted and then laughed at his own joke; smiling over his shoulder at Dean before closing the bathroom door.

Dean scowled but chuckled – encouraged that Sam felt like being a smartass – and lingered in the hall until he heard the shower turn on.

Dean nodded his approval, feeling confident that Sam was managing okay for now, and crossed back to the bedroom; taking off his leather jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair in the corner to begin drying.

Dean sighed as he stared at his rain-streaked jacket and then glanced out the window as he heard the wrecker crank; watching as Bobby backed the Impala into the garage to begin the messy job of cleaning her interior and then fixing her flat.

"Thanks, Bobby..." Dean murmured – because he really couldn't say it enough – and then turned from the window; pulling his cell phone from his jacket's pocket and dialing John's number.

As the phone rang, Dean went back into the hallway; knowing Sam would bitch about him hovering but unable to stop himself; wanting to be nearby in case the kid needed him.

Because experience had taught that just because Sam felt fine a few seconds ago didn't mean the kid would continue to feel fine.

Like in the Impala...

Dean shook his head at the memory and sighed; hearing Rumsfeld whine behind the closed kitchen door down the hall and then snapping his attention to John as his dad's voice suddenly came over the line.

"Dean? You and Sam at Bobby's?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir. Finally."

"Finally?" John repeated; concern in his tone, and Dean could picture him checking his watch; John having been so involved in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed that Dean was calling him later than he should have. "Everything okay?"

"For now..." Dean answered guardedly and then huffed a laughed. "But it's been one hell of a trip since we left the truck stop."

John paused; the intensity of his frown almost audible. "Meaning...?"

"Well..." Dean began, slowly pacing outside the bathroom door as he listened to the shower continue to run. "For one thing, it started raining...which sucked enough. But then you know how we were joking about Sam throwing up in the Impala?"

"Oh, hell. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah," Dean confirmed; not keeping his dad in suspense. "Vomit as far as the eye could see."

John chuckled at Dean's description; as if his oldest was waxing poetic about a field of daisies. "Wow. Hate I missed that."

"It was a sight to behold," Dean replied dryly and then cringed at the memory of watery, red-tinged puke covering the Impala's dash, bench seat, and floorboard.

God bless Bobby Singer for volunteering to clean it up.

"I'm sure," John agreed about what had happened on the road; not even wanting to imagine such a scene as Dean had implied. "Where's Sam now? Is he okay?"

"He seems to be," Dean reported and glanced at the closed bathroom door as the shower remained on. "Bobby came to get us since the Impala also has a flat tire now...long story, I'll tell you later...but we just got back to his house. Sam's taking a shower."

"Good," John praised; vaguely wondering how the Impala had ended up with a flat tire but more concerned about his youngest. "That should help him feel better," he commented about Sam's current location.

Dean nodded; already looking forward to his turn under the warm water after Sam was settled and more than ready to get out of his own damp clothes.

"Has he thrown up since the Impala?"

Dean nodded again at John's question about Sam. "Oh, yeah. For about five minutes on the side of the road after that and then a round of dry heaving in the wrecker on the way here."

John sighed harshly at the news. "Has he been drinking water?"

"A little."

"Dean..." John sighed again; frustration and worry instantly sharpening his tone. "What did I tell you? You need to keep him hydrated or – "

" – I know," Dean interrupted; his tone equally sharp; not in the mood to hear John tell him how to take care of Sam. "I'm gonna make sure he eats and drinks something before he goes back to sleep. And he's getting a fresh dose of Tylenol. And I'm keeping a watch on everything else from his fever to his level of pain." He paused. "I'm on it, Dad. I got this. It's not the first time Sam's been sick."

"I know that," John snapped. "But it is the first time we've suspected appendicitis. And if we miss the signs, Sam could get worse and be in serious trouble before we even realize there's a problem. Do you want his appendix to rupture?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Dean demanded; anger making his heart pound; pissed that his dad would tempt fate by saying that possibility aloud.

"I'm just saying – "

" – well, save it," Dean coolly advised and then sighed; swallowing another smartass retort and willing himself to calm down; having more important things to focus on than dealing with John's dumbass comments.

John sighed as well. "Dean..."

"What?" Dean replied brusquely; glancing again at the bathroom door when the shower shut off and the curtain rings clanked together as Sam undoubtedly reached for his towel to dry off.

John paused on the opposite end of the line, and Dean could picture his dad arching a disapproving eyebrow at the impudence in his voice.

There was more silence as John sighed again, clearly trying to reign in his own temper; both father and oldest son on edge due to their youngest's condition.

Dean shook his head in annoyance as he continued to hold his phone to his ear; his attention once again focusing on the bathroom door as he heard Sam move around in the small space behind it while the kid got dressed in his sleep clothes even though it was still early afternoon.

"I'll be there later tonight," John finally said; sounding surprisingly tired.

The somewhat defeated tone made something twist in Dean's chest; because he knew John was just concerned and was dealing with the situation the way he always did – by giving orders he expected to be obeyed.

But Dean wasn't interested in being a good solider right now; because being a big brother was far more important today...and he didn't need any instructions on how to fulfill that duty.

"Dean..."

"Yeah," Dean acknowledged indifferently. "We'll see you later tonight," he confirmed to John and was about to say more when Sam suddenly coughed; the strangled, almost panicked sound echoing against the tile of the bathroom.

Dean frowned and tilted his head; listening intently in the hallway and feeling his heart beat faster with dread.

Because coughing usually led to something far more unpleasant when Sam had a recent history of being nauseous...

"Oh, god. Not again..." Dean muttered and stepped closer to the door. "Sammy..."

"What's wrong?" John immediately asked; hearing the urgency in his oldest's voice as Dean called Sam's name. "Dean..."

But Dean didn't answer; still listening as Sam coughed again and then as expected...

"Shit," Dean hissed at the unmistakable sound of dry heaving filtering through the door.

"Is that Sam?" John demanded; clearly disturbed that he could hear his youngest gagging over the phone...and through a closed door. "Dean!"

"Yeah, that's him..." Dean replied distractedly. "I gotta go, Dad."

Whatever John said in response was lost as Dean ended the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his jeans before entering the bathroom; not bothering to knock and not caring what Sam thought about his privacy being invaded.

But Sam made no reaction to Dean's abrupt entrance; his face hidden behind his damp, floppy hair as his head bowed over the sink while his hands braced against the counter on either side; his back arched as his body forcefully retched; only remnants of bile and spit actually coming up...and then nothing – just bouts of dry heaving over and over.

Dean cringed at the painful sound as it continued to echo in the small space of the bathroom and instantly reached for his brother. "So much for feeling fine...huh, Sammy?" he asked, rubbing the kid's quivering back through his t-shirt.

Sam swallowed and coughed. "Dean..." he sobbed and then gasped; leaning slightly to the right as pain shot through his side.

"It's okay," Dean soothed. "Just try to relax, kiddo..." he further urged.

Sam breathed harshly through his mouth. "Bobby – "

" – is still outside," Dean informed; knowing his brother was concerned about the older hunter hearing him get sick yet again; as if gagging over a bucket in the wrecker hadn't been enough embarrassment for one day. "Don't worry about it, okay? It's just you and me...and Rumsfeld."

Sam briefly smiled at the mention of Bobby's dog and then coughed before retching three more times.

"Easy..." Dean murmured; his hand rubbing back and forth between Sam's bony shoulders. "Easy, easy, easy..."

Sam seemed to respond to his brother's quiet chant; sighing shakily and swallowing as he closed his eyes and willed himself to get a grip; desperately wanting to break the cycle of dry heaving and silently commanding his stomach muscles to relax.

Several minutes passed with Dean standing behind his brother as Sam hovered over the sink; rubbing the kid's back and waiting for Sam to tell him whatever he needed.

Sam swallowed again; trying to ignore how much his stomach continued to cramp in the aftermath. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy..."

"I..." Sam swallowed once more; his throat incredibly sore and dry. "I think I'm done."

"You sure?" Dean checked; not in the mood to have his little brother throw up on him.

Sam nodded cautiously and pushed himself away from the counter; feeling shaky and weak as he blinked up at Dean.

Dean brushed Sam's bangs from his eyes; briefly palming his brother's forehead as his gaze swept over Sam; not liking how warm the kid still felt and how pale, flushed, and generally unwell Sam looked.

Sam swallowed. "My head hurts," he commented and squinted as he felt the pain throb in his temples and behind his eyes; a side effect of throwing up, made worse by his fever. "And I'm thirsty."

"I bet," Dean agreed; knowing both complaints were probably understatements and recognizing his opportunity to push fluids...and food. "What d'ya say we get you some ginger ale?"

Sam wrinkled his nose in rejection. "Apple juice?" he asked instead; his tone that of hopeful, bargaining five-year old.

"Maybe later," Dean promised, having expected that response from his little brother. "Ginger ale is better for you right now. Let's see how that does first." He paused. "And maybe a couple of crackers, too..."

Sam wrinkled his nose again and reflexively wrapped his arm around his stomach at the mention of food. "Dean..."

"You need to eat something, Sammy," Dean reasonably argued. "I think that's part of the problem you just had. You haven't eaten anything since last night, and your scrawny body is running on empty, dude."

Sam swallowed at the idea of choking down food only to have it most likely come back up within minutes.

"You'll be fine," Dean assured – reading his brother's thoughts – and then encouragingly squeezed Sam's bony shoulder.

"Easy for you to say," Sam grumbled and swallowed again.

Dean chuckled. "Well, if it comes back up..." He shrugged. "We'll deal with it. Won't be the first time today, right? Maybe Bobby will bring the bucket inside."

Sam scowled. "Nice, Dean."

Dean chuckled again and affectionately ruffled Sam's floppy, shower-damp hair. "Come on."

Sam sighed but smiled as he turned to reach for his duffel still resting on the lid of the closed toilet from where he had set it earlier.

"Leave it," Dean told his brother – eager to get Sam fed and settled – and pulled the kid out of the bathroom and down the hallway toward the kitchen. "I'll take care of that later. Right now, it's chowtime," he informed cheerfully and kept his movements slow and careful as he steered Sam toward Bobby's kitchen.

TBC