Hello, everyone! Here is my first Supernatural story which should end up being about four or five chapters. If you read my other work, please be on the lookout for some updates this weekend! And, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

He can hear the phone downstairs ringing wildly, and the only thing that gets him out of bed is the particular phone that's being called. It's has a unique ringer – something higher pitched and quicker paced. It's the phone that sits in between FBI and CDC, this one is labeled Uncle and if you ask him, it's the most important phone of them all. The word is written in blue crayon from when Dean was six; it's been three years since Dean's called him Uncle Bobby, and the old paper has begun to yellow, but he doesn't have the heart to throw it away.

The moment he recognizes that shrill ringing, he's out of bed. Racing the stairs two at a time until he finally reaches the receiver. Before he answers the phone, he wonders what mess John has gotten himself into this time. The last time John had called this early, he was concussed and lost on the side of the road.

"Hello?" he waits impatiently for a response but there's nothing, "John, it's nearly three in the morning, if you call me this early, there had better be a damn good..."

"No, it's, uh, it's me..." The reply is mumbled and he can immediately tell that the boy is under some sort of distress.

"Dean? What's wrong, son?" he tries to be as tender as he can. He knows that he babies the kid way too much for a nineteen year old. For heaven's sake, the kid wasn't really a kid anymore, but he feels obligated to make up for all the time he spends with John.

"Sam's been sick..." there's a long pause, and he can hear muffled murmuring in the background, "...and I don't know where Dad is."

"Where are you?" His voice is calm and doesn't reflect the pounding in his chest. If there's one thing you learn from the business, it's how to fake composure.

"About an hour north of Minneapolis." Bobby doesn't even realize it, but he lets out a sigh of relief, the boys are close. He could be there in five hours, maybe four and a half if he doesn't make too many stops.

"How long has your dad been gone?" He wants to jump in his car right now, but these aren't his kids and John would get pissy if even knew about this conversation. The last time he had driven to the boys, John had returned no more than 24 hours later and promptly gave him the "These are my sons. If you want to raise kids, have your own" speech. Idjit.

"It's been about a week..." There's another long pause and more mumbling, "...look, I'm sorry for calling you at this hour. I'm sure he'll show up soon, it's just...whatever...anyways, I can take care of Sammy on my own. Sorry for bothering..."

"Like hell." The words are out of his mouth before he even knows what he's saying, "You and me both know that you wouldn't be calling if this wasn't serious. Sam has the best doctor in the world with you there, but everyone needs a little back up. Anyways, I can hear the exhaustion in your voice. When was the last time you slept?"

"It's been awhile."

"That's what I thought. I'll be there by sunrise." He hangs up the phone before the boy can protest and quickly runs upstairs to pack a small bag. A sick Sammy was no picnic walk. Once, when the boys were staying with him, a six year old Sam had come home from school with a nasty stomach bug.

"Why isn't he eating?" Bobby asked turning towards the older brother. As if a ten year old would know anything more than he did about a child's eating habits.

"Sammy, eat your damn food." Dean grumbled.

"Dean – language." He's at that age, but it doesn't mean Bobby is going to just let him get away with cussing.

"Dad lets me say damn." Dean said as he shoveled more food into his mouth. Bobby rolled his eyes, playing through all the things he'd never say: your daddy also lets you help him hunt, but that doesn't make it right.

"You sure you're okay, son?" Bobby asked taking in the younger boy's unusually pale complexion and rosy cheeks. Bobby looked over and could see Dean's mind turning like clock gears, although he's clueless as to what the boy is thinking.

"Sammy, come here," he spoke softly, a complete contrast to his earlier tone; the smaller boy obliged and maneuvered his way towards Dean. Once there Dean placed the back of his hand on Sam's forehead, he frowned. "Your tummy hurt?"

A nod.

"Like it's full of yuckiness?"

A double nod.

"Want to lie down?"

That time Sam doesn't nod or shake his head. Instead, the poor boy just throws up right there, half of it landing on Dean. Sam begins to cry and Bobby freezes. "It's alright, Sammy, I didn't like these shoes anyways. Now I have a good excuse to throw them out. Shhh, it'll be okay."

But illnesses always hit that boy hard, and they spent the next few days in a local hospital to make sure the kid kept hydrated. Bobby shudders at the memory and prays to any being above that his poor immune system wasn't something he still possessed. As he zips up his duffle, he can't help but think this wasn't exactly how he had planned to spend his weekend off, "Balls."

A/N: And there you have it! Please let me know what you think! As promised you'll get some sick!Sammy in the next chapter and some sick!Dean as well.