It wasn't as if he'd never met other hunters' kids before. These were just the youngest kids that any hunter he knew had.

He was a bit surprised when he opened the door.

He had expected John Winchester's offspring to have dark hair and eyes like their old man, so the green eyed, towheaded youngster with the red backpack caught Bobby's attention. Even if he hadn't seen that creased and faded picture John dragged out one night after too many pitchers of beer, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the boy must look like his mama.

It wasn't the child's appearance that made Bobby watch him over the next few days, though.

It was his silence.

In Bobby's experience, when a kid was quiet, it meant they were probably into something.

Not this one.

He rarely spoke, usually only when he was asked a direct question by his father. He met Bobby's attempts at conversation with wary looks and tentative head gestures.

He was all different when it came to that baby.

He spoke softly to his little brother as they sat in the floor, rolling cars or a ball back and forth. The baby, just barely a year old jabbered and gooed, and little Dean answered like he understood every sound.

The kids didn't bother Bobby and their dad, letting the adults sort through the research and a bottle of Jack all afternoon and into the evening.

They were so quiet, in fact, Bobby had almost forgotten they were there until John suddenly looked up and said "Son of a bitch! It's almost nine o'clock!"

He stood and stalked into the other room with Bobby following.

They found Dean and baby Sammy laying on the floor on a blanket, with the boy scooted up against his little brother and a man's flannel shirt draped over both of them.

"Heya, Dean." John said softly as the child raised his head. "I'm sorry, I forgot what time it was. Did you and Sammy eat anything?"

"I had some Cheerios in my backpack." Dean nodded.

"Okay, I'll be right back." John went out to the car and returned with a battered playpen, which he set up next to the old army cot Bobby had put out for Dean.

Dean watched warily as John placed an old quilt on the bottom of the playpen, then picked up the sleeping baby.

Dean reached over and kissed his little brother's cheek, with a whispered "Good night Sammy."

John kissed his younger son's forehead, then gently placed Sam in the playpen and covered him with the blanket he and Dean had been laying on. He pointed at the cot, and Dean obediently climbed on.

"Good night Dean." John murmured, pulling the worn old blanket up to his son's shoulders.

"'Night, Daddy." the boy answered, snuggling down.

John and Bobby returned to the study, back to their research on the obscure South American hoodoo group that was apparently causing trouble in northern Texas. By this point, John was drinking more than he was reading.

Bobby heard a chair scrape across the floor in the kitchen.

He glanced over at John, who didn't seem to notice, and quietly walked down the hall.

There was indeed a chair shoved up against the stove, but no sign of anyone currently in the kitchen. Bobby stepped back into the hall in time to see a small towheaded youngster turn left at the top of the stairs.

He followed to see what the young'un was into.

Just as he reached the doorway of the bedroom the Winchesters were occupying for the night, little Dean finished the circle of salt he was pouring around the cot and the playpen.

The child looked up, momentarily startled to find Bobby watching him.

"It's okay." Bobby nodded. "I'm not mad. But there's salt on all the doors and windows here. You're safe."

The boy then straightened, held out the nearly empty carton, and met Bobby's eyes with a look that shook him to the core.

The kid wasn't frightened, or mistrustful, or angry, or any of the emotions you would expect from a little boy in a strange place.

The kid's eyes were tired. Not in a physically sleepy sense.

As in someone who had seen way too much of the world.

Bobby had that look at fourteen.

This kid was only five years old.

"Get some sleep." Bobby bid gruffly.

The boy nodded, getting back into the cot, and watching cautiously as Bobby backed away.

By a little after eleven, Bobby's eyes were starting to lose focus. John was passed out on the couch, his head thrown back, the dregs of his last glass of bourbon spilled on his chest, and one arm dragging the floor.

Bobby shook his head and left the younger hunter there, going upstairs to bed.

At 12:37 am, according to his bedside clock, Bobby Singer was awakened by a baby crying. It took nearly a full minute of blinking to figure out how a baby was crying in his house. By that time, whispers and footsteps were making their way down the hall.

"Want some milk, Sammy?" Dean asked, slowly leading his unsteady little brother by the hand. "It's okay. I'll get you some. Stop crying. You're gonna wake Daddy."

By the time Bobby reached his own bedroom door, little Dean had hoisted Sam onto one hip and was cautiously carrying him down the stairs.

Bobby followed, with a glance into the study to see that John was still out for the count.

Dean set Sam in the middle of the kitchen floor, then rummaged in the cabinet next to the stove, finding a small pan. The boy then dragged a chair over to the sink, running a little water in the pot. He placed the pot on the seat of the chair, which he then pushed over to the stove. He climbed up onto the chair again, turned the burner on, and put the pan on the eye.

The child then stood on tiptoes to get one of the bottles John had left on the counter, carrying it over to fridge and filling it halfway with milk. He then climbed back up the chair to set the bottle in the pot of water. Then he sat back down in the floor in front of Sam.

"It'll just be a minute Sammy. You'll have some nice warm milk in your tummy and you'll go back to sleep."

Sam gurgled in response.

After a couple minutes, Dean crawled back up onto the chair to check the bottle. Apparently it was warm enough, because he turned off the stove, gently shook the bottle, and then gave it to Sammy.

The baby held the bottle with one hand and offered the other to his brother.

Dean hefted Sam back up onto his hip and carefully carried him upstairs. He settled the baby back into the playpen, covered him up, and then raised the side with practiced ease.

Instead of immediately getting back in bed, Dean tugged the blanket off the big bed, dragged it downstairs, and tucked it around his father the best he could.

He then returned upstairs, and checked that Sammy's eyes were nearly closed before getting back into his cot.

Bobby returned to his own bed, satisfied the two little Winchesters were settled for the time being.

The next morning, Bobby peeked into the spare bedroom as he walked past.

Little Dean was in the playpen, fastening a clean diaper on the baby. As Bobby watched, he then sat Sam up, tugging his little brother's pajama shirt over his head.

"Let's get you into some clean clothes, Sammy, and then I'll find us some cereal." Dean said softly.

"You boys hungry?" Bobby called from the doorway.

Dean's little head whipped around, and he looked at Bobby warily.

"Come on downstairs. I'll make some eggs and bacon." Bobby offered.

Dean nodded, so Bobby left him to finish getting Sam and himself dressed.

They walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Dean carrying Sam over and putting him down in the middle of the floor. He took another bottle from the counter where John had placed them last night and poured milk for the baby before he turned to Bobby, who was cooking.

"Do ya have an old pot?" The boy asked Bobby shyly.

"Like this?" Bobby frowned, rummaging through the cabinet beside the stove.

Dean shook his head. "Bigger."

He ducked down to look in the cabinet, and pointed at an old canning pot Karen had used to make jelly.

"This one?" Bobby questioned.

Dean nodded, taking it silently and putting it upside down on one of the straight backed wooden chairs. He then hoisted Sam up onto the makeshift booster seat, and secured him to the chair with what was apparently one of John's old belts. He then pushed Sam up to the table, and pulled another chair up beside his little brother, perching on his knees.

Bobby placed two mismatched plates on the table in front of the boys, with forks for each.

"Sammy needs a spoon." Dean said softly.

Bobby placed a spoon on the table, which baby Sam picked up with an exuberant gurgle. Bobby turned back to the table with his own breakfast, to find Dean carefully cutting Sam's food into tiny pieces with the side of his fork, while the baby banged the spoon on the table and jabbered excitedly.

"You're hungry aren't you?" Dean murmured to Sam. "That wasn't much dinner last night, I know. But we have bacon and eggs this morning. Eat it all so you can be big and strong."

Dean cut up every bite of Sam's food before turning to his own breakfast.

John stumbled into the kitchen, and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

"Tylenol's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom." Bobby gestured down the hall. "Eggs and bacon on the stove. Greasy breakfast is the best thing for a hangover."

John nodded, staring bleary eyed into his cup of coffee.

Sam suddenly screeched, turning everyone's attention toward the baby.

"No, Sammy," Dean whispered. "Daddy has a headache."

John smiled in spite of his foul mood at his sons. "Good morning to you too, Sammy. Dean takes good care of you, doesn't he?"

Sam babbled something in return before shoving another handful of food into his mouth.

John pushed himself to his feet, then ambled down the hall to the bathroom. He returned, fixing himself a plate and sitting at the table.

"Thanks for breakfast, Bobby." He muttered.

Bobby nodded, not that John was looking anyway.

There was a soft rustle as Dean leaned up in his chair, gathering bits of egg and bacon that Sam had dropped around his plate, and gently fed them to his little brother.

"You two about through?" John asked.

Dean nodded.

"Go get washed up, and get Sammy washed up. Then the two of you play while Bobby and I do some more research." John instructed.

Dean nodded, sliding out of his chair and around behind Sam to unbuckle the belt holding the baby in place.

"And tell Bobby thank you for breakfast." John reminded.

"Thank you." Dean said softly, looking more at his father than the man who had prepared the meal.

"You're welcome." Bobby tried to give the kid a smile.

Dean lifted Sammy up onto his hip and carried him carefully up the stairs.

Once they were out of sight, Bobby turned to John. "Get out."

"What?" John frowned.

"You heard me." Bobby shook his head. "This ain't no life for young'uns. Give up hunting, go find you a steady job and a stable home and raise those boys right."

"My boys are just fine." John argued. "They'll be a lot better when I find the thing that came after Sam and killed their mother."

"Look at them." Bobby waved a hand toward the stairs. "That kid is five years old, and he's not acting like Sam's big brother, he's acting like he's Sam's mama. He doesn't talk, except to Sam. He should be running around and making noise and getting into things. That ain't natural, John, the way he is."

"He saw his mother die, Bobby." John growled. "You expect him to be like all the other kids? He'll be fine. He's a good kid. He loves his little brother. We'll find this thing that killed Mary, and I'll kill it, and we'll go back to a normal life. But I can't just sit around the house at night, or go to work and leave my boys with some babysitter and just wait for that thing to show up again."

Bobby sighed. "John, I know you miss Mary, but you can't turn Dean into her."

"Have you seen one of your parents die?" John snapped.

"Yes." Bobby answered softly.

"Then you ought to know that this is the best I can do for Dean now." John huffed. "He will be okay. We'll all be okay. One day, when that thing is dead. But in the meantime, I don't need someone who doesn't even have kids telling me how to raise mine. Now are you going to shut up and help me, or am I going to do this on my own?"

John shoved his chair back from the table and stood.

"Calm down." Bobby looked at the taller man with an expression that made clear that while he might drop the argument, he still believed John was wrong. "Get your drawers out of a knot and we'll get back to the books."

"Good." John walked over to the counter and poured himself another cup of coffee.

The next time Bobby saw the Winchester boys, three months later, Dean wasn't carrying his little brother around as much. Sam had learned to walk fairly steadily, holding onto Dean's hand. The baby had also learned to say four words - no, eat, byebye, and Dean.