The Minor Fall and the Major Lift

This is a part of my Supernatural fix that I have been on lately. I've been wanting to write this story ever since 'Dream a Little Dream of Me'. I love Dean and Bobby's relationship. And ever since Dean said one specific line to Bobby, I had to go back and watch the other seasons to see their relationship. And I think that line has been said to each other more than once. If you don't know what line I'm talking about, you'll know when you come across it eventually.

Summary: I remember the first time Dean came to me to save his life. Bobby POV

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story besides the idea behind it.

I remember the first time Dean came to me to save his life. I mean, I've probably saved his life more times than I could count before that time. But it was because his father brought him to me or he was too stubborn to come to me, so I ended up going to him. This time was on his own accord. He came to me.

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I had gotten a call from his father, cursing and yelling like a mad man, five days ago saying that he was missing for two days. It confused me, worried me, and scared me all at the same time. He'd never scare his father that way, and John was definitely scared. So something was definitely wrong.

When I was yanked out of my dreams at two in the morning by the purr of the Winchester Impala, all of my concern and worry went out the window. All I could see and feel was red and anger toward the middle Winchester.

I stood at my front door waiting for a knock on it. I ended up waiting a lot longer than I planned and thought that maybe the kid lost his balls somewhere on the drive over. I should've known better than for him to back down from anything. As I opened the door, on the other side he stood with his hand raised, about to knock. "Bobby," he said, surprised that the door opened before he had laid a hand on it.

"Dean Winchester! Why the hell would you worry your father like that? He's driving himself sick not know where you are. Did you not think to give him a phone call? Of all the stupid and irresponsible things to do. And from you of all people?"

"Sorry, Bobby," he whispered.

"Sorry won't cut it, Dean. You can't wake me up at this hour and expect that to be a sufficient enough apology!"

"I just…" his voice trailed off as he turned his back to me.

The anger haze fell from my eyes. I gasped and took a step back from the boy standing in front of me. He started to walk down my porch steps and I realized how slow his steps were. "Dean," I said, my voice less angry then it was a few seconds ago. I waited for him to turn around and he did. Although he had a problem with most authority, there were a few people in the universe that were an exception to the rule. I was one of them and he always listened to me. "Dean, can you tell me what day of the week is it? And don't you dare try and lie to me if you don't know," I threatened.

He held onto the banister of on my steps so tightly as if he let go, he'd fall. Like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "I don't know, sir," he replied. He looked as if he were falling asleep on my porch.

He called me 'sir'. The only times he'd ever called me that was when he was using his sarcastic tongue against me, or when he was hallucinating that I was his father, or when he was scared. That one word, one syllable, and three letters made me listen. But most of all, when it fell from his mouth to my ears, it scared me more than any demon could. It never meant well and it lit a fire in the pit of my stomach.

I left the confines of my house and closed the distance between him and myself in three steps. I put his head in my hands and wince inwardly when I felt the heat coming from him. I used my thumbs to pry his eyes open. "Dean, look at me," I said. If I had a choice, I wouldn't have been so rough with him, but that was the only thing that could get through to him.

"Yes, sir," he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open.

"Stop calling me sir."

"Okay," he said, struggling to keep the title from crossing the barrier of his lips.

"Dean, tell me what happened to you."

Even in the dark I could see how dilated his pupils were. He licked his lips, preparing himself to speak. His eyes drifting shut again. "Too many. Too many of them. Outnumbered."

His hand slipped from the banister and lucky that I was holding him, or he could've seriously hurt himself. He fell to his knees and groaned as I caught him. With that noise I knew that there were more injuries than I could see. "Dean," I pressed, still holding him up by his head. "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he replied. His own personal mantra. The mantra that irritated me more than anything in the world.

I started to see red again. I know that he didn't just lie to my face. "Dean Winchester!" I yelled. He lifted his head a few centimeters to try and meet my eyes. I'll never forget the pain I saw in them, but it disappeared as quickly if not faster than they appeared. That kid has gotten better at hiding pain. "I'm going to ask you the question again and if you lie to me, I want you to leave because I never want to see you again." The words fell from my mouth before I could stop them. I'd never turn him away he should know that but a flash in his eyes told me that he believed what I just said. His breathing quickened and if I didn't stop him, he was going to pass out. "Dean, where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," he choked out.

I rested his forehead on my shoulder and rubbed circles on his back to calm his breathing. "It's okay, son."

"I'm so sorry, Bobby," he cried into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

My shoulder got moist either from tears, sweat, or both, but I didn't mind. "Don't be, Dean."

My heart broke for the kid in my arms. We stayed like that until his breathing evened out. I lost track of time, but I wouldn't have been surprised if we were in that position for an hour. My knees went numb, but that didn't matter. All that did was the seventeen-year-old in my embrace.

I lifted his head off my shoulder and saw his eyes closed. If he fell asleep or passed out from exhaustion, it didn't matter, because this was probably the most relaxed since this whole ordeal started. His father said he'd been missing for two days, five days ago. An entire week. But who knows how long it had been for him.

I picked him up in a bridal carry, disgusted at how easy it was. I carried him into the room that he'd stay at every time he graced me with his presence. The room that belonged to him since he was five years old. He sunk into his bed when I put him in it. When I turned on the light, I got a glimpse of what his body probably looked like from his face. The bruises on his face were emphasized by the paleness of it.

I shuddered to think what was hidden under his layers of clothes.

Starting with his jacket and over-shirt, I began peeling the layers off of him. His final shirt proved to be trouble, so I decided to just cut it off. I don't know what worried me more, the blood on the shirt or the bruises covering his entire upper body. When I rolled him over, on his back, more bruises wrapped around his torso along with two perfectly parallel gashes down his back almost a foot apart on his upper back. One was still oozing blood. I bit my lip in horror.

I made my way to his jeans and was glad that he was wearing basketball shorts under them, not that I haven't seen him in all his glory before. But that was ten years ago, when he had passed out in the shower after a hunt.

If it were possible, his legs looked worse. Along with the gash and bruises, there were burns that looked infected on them. "Jesus, Dean. How did you get yourself up here?" I said as I saw his wrists and ankles covered in heavy bruises and rope burns. Whoever did this to Dean had him bound, and he fought like hell to get out of it.

My admiration grew for the boy who was slowly transforming into a man.

I sat back on the chair at his beside, pissed as hell. It became my personal mission to find whoever did this to Dean make sure that the son of a bitch paid. But revenge could wait until I made sure Dean was well.

Damn, his chest looked mangled. There were definitely fractures if not breaks in them. "I'm sorry, Dean," I apologized to him even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

I pushed gently on his ribcage searching for breaks, wincing as I did. I didn't want to find any breaks as much as he didn't want me to find any breaks. I pushed down on an area that looked the most deformed and he moaned and tried to roll away from the pain.

That was the first break.

I found one more break and two possible fractures the more I probed. Each time I found a tender spot, I had to hold him down from rolling away from me. But what did he know? I could've been causing him more pain that his captives did. Pain gathered in his brow and massaged it away. The longer that I massaged, the more relaxed he became to my touch. He became so accustomed to it that he groaned when I took it away.

My back was turned to him to prepare the bandages to bind his ribs. "Bobby?" he whispered. "I'm sorry."

I quickly turned to him and saw that his eyes were open and alert. And that meant he was feeling pain. "Hey, you have nothing to apologize for. It's okay," I said. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts to breathe."

"It's okay," I said. "Your ribs are mangled. I'm going to have to sit you up to wrap you." Dean gave me a nod to show that he understood. I sat on his bedside with my hand preparing to lift him. "On three," I warned. I made eye contact with Dean and he gave me a look to say now or never. "Three."

And we sat him up. He bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. He grasped onto my shirt so tightly as if it was his lifeline, burying his face in my chest. "You lying son of a bitch," Dean mumbled over and over again when he finally caught his breath.

A sheet of sweat formed on his entire body and I knew that I had to get through with wrapping him so I could clean his leg wounds and break his fever. His chest heaved as he sat waiting for me to do what I needed to do so he could go back to sleep. I rubbed some ointment on the cuts on his back trying to ignore the hiss every time I did.

I finished wrapping him and tipped his chin to look at me. "Too tight?" I asked. "Breathe," I commanded and he took a deep breath in and let it out.

"Perfect," he said.

"Dean."

"I promise."

"Are you up for telling me what happened, or are you too tired?"

"I can," he said.

I helped lie him back down. His head lolled to the side and his eyes drifted to a close. They shot back open to answer my question. "No one's holding a gun to your head, Dean. If you're too tired…"

"Couldn't hurt them," he whispered. "Possessed."

"Who?" I asked.

"Football team," he gulped.

"How many?"

He swallowed before he spoke trying to read me and find out if he should lie to me to make me feel better. But it didn't matter because I would've been mad no mater how many from a football team were coming after him. "Seven," he said. His eyes drifted closed, but he fought to keep them open. It was a losing battle. "Bobby," he pleaded.

"It's okay, son. Just go to sleep." He looked as if he wanted to say more to me, but he fell back asleep before he could. "You did good, Dean." I said as I massaged his brow again, relaxing him further into his dreams. "I promise that I'll get the sons of a bitches who did this to you." That was one promise that I made that I'd die before I didn't keep it.

So, here is chapter one. I guess this story should have been posted before 'The Instrumental Battle Cry' because it has a link to it eventually. It just goes with what I want to happen in the third season or fourth season, or whatever season. I hope this turned out all right. Please no flames. Thanks for reading and please review. Lil-Rock