Summary: AU. John has disappeared. Dean, however, can't go find Sam at Stanford, because he's been in the hospital for four months without telling anyone. The story opens the day he is released, a little worse for the wear, when he places a call to Bobby...

A/N: this is my first fic, and feedback is very much appreciated!

Part 1/?

Bobby is in the kitchen fixing a sandwich when the phone in the hallway rings out; a shrill, agitated sound that cuts through the silence of the morning like a scream. He stands still for a moment, disoriented, trying to place the sound – he can't remember the last time someone has called his house phone, not since he'd gotten the cell a year and a half ago. The only people who call the house now are people who want something – salesmen, creditors, wrong numbers, and old friends.

The phone puffs a cloud of dust into the air as he lifts it, and he coughs once before saying, "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is deep, hesitant, and vaguely familiar. "This Bobby Singer?"

"Who's asking?"

"Hey. Bobby. This is Dean Winchester."

"Dean?" He tries to mask the surprise. "Jesus, boy, it's been a while."

"Yeah. Two years?"

"At the very least. How the hell are you? How's that daddy of yours?"

"We – we're doing okay. How've you been?"

"I'm just fine."

Dean clears his throat but says nothing. Bobby lets the silence hang. He knows Dean well enough to know that on the other end of the line, the boy is probably trying to overcome the cat that mysteriously gets his tongue every time he needs help. In the background Bobby hears an official-sounding voice drone for a moment, and then Dean's voice saying something sharply in return, but the phone is muffled so Bobby can't hear the words.

"Spit it out," Bobby says finally, worry getting the better of him. "What's wrong, Dean? Is it John?"

"Well," Dean says, a sigh rattling down the phone line, "not exactly. It's been some time since I've spoken to him, actually. Haven't been able to get a hold of him. Well, not – listen, Bobby, it's complicated."

"So he's –"

"He's not the reason I'm calling."

"Oh?"

"No. Here's the thing. I got a little banged up on a job a couple months ago. Been in the hospital, bout three hours away from you, in East Rapids. And… I'm going crazy. I need to get the fuck out of here. But I can't drive, not at the moment, and dad's not picking up my calls, and I could use a place to… you know, rest up. Just a week and a half or so until I can get back on my feet, sort myself out a little. I wouldn't ask if – and I don't want you to feel any obligation to – "

"You asking if you can stay here?"

He can almost hear Dean's sheepish smile. "Looks like."

"You got your car up there with you?"

"Garage down the block."

"Huh. Well. There's a train that runs straight from town to East Rapids, and if I take the one o'clock I can be there by around four. Then we'll take the Impala back here. Provided you let me get behind the wheel, that is."

"Man, Bobby. I don't know how to thank you."

"Luckily you've got some time to think about it. I won't be there for another few hours."

Dean laughs. "Hey. I'm lettin' you drive my baby. If that ain't thanks, I don't know what is." There is a pause, and then, in a low voice, "I'm, uh, I'm Steve Howe, by the way. Steve. Room 202."

"See you soon, Steve."

"See you. And really. Thanks."

Bobby hangs up slowly. He adjusts his baseball cap and walks into the kitchen, where his half-made sandwich lies abandoned on the counter . He stares at it for a moment, then idly begins stacking lettuce onto the bread.

Shit.

Things have got to be bad if Dean has called him. Where the hell is John? And what exactly has happened? The kid had used the words "a little banged up," which for anyone else probably means "beat to all hell and barely alive to tell the tale."

Shit.

He makes a mental note to stock up on beer.

It's just past four when he steps onto the train platform in East Rapids, and the late summer sun is beginning to sink, shadows beginning to stretch out on the pavement, lengthening by infinitesimal degrees as the sun dips lower.

He examines a tourist map provided by the heavyset woman at the information desk and tries to get his bearings. He's been to East Rapids a couple of times, and thinks he knows how to find the hospital. It is a relatively large town, though it's not quite a city. Has a zoo, and a good sized library, and a museum that's well-known for its extensive beetle collection. The hospital is reputed to be pretty good, and Bobby himself had landed there when a wound turned septic about five years back.

He finds it again without too much trouble, just eight blocks from the station, a sprawling brick building that would look more like a school than a hospital if it weren't for the ambulances wailing in and out of its long drive.

"Lookin' for Steve Howe," he says to the woman at the desk, and she nods absently and sends him up to the third floor.

He finds room 202 easily, and enters, poking his head in first. The hospital bed is rumpled but empty, and for a moment he isn't sure he has the right room. Then someone says, "Hey, Bobby," and he turns to see Dean sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair by the window. A doctor sits beside him, legs crossed casually as he rifles through a sheaf of papers stacked in a mustard-colored folder.

"You his uncle?" the doctor asks, looking up sternly through a pair of trendy black glasses. He's youngish, maybe forty. Laugh lines around his mouth.

"Yes sir," Bobby says, moving forward, his eyes on Dean. "Hey, Steve." The boy is too pale, with dark circles under his green eyes, and too thin. His hair needs cutting badly, and there is a new scar tracing itself down his cheek and neck before it disappears into the folds of his grey t-shirt.

"I've just been going over this stuff with your nephew," the doctor is saying as he rises to his feet, handing Bobby the yellow folder. "This here is for you. Steve's already got one. In it you'll find instructions for his medication, some basic exercises, some good physical therapists in the area, his prescriptions, a recipe for lasagna…"

Bobby looks up at this last one and raises his eyebrows.

"Good," the doctor says. "you're paying attention. Although, come to think of, after four months here, Steve is probably getting used to being cooked for. Aren't you, Steve?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, the taste of wet cardboard has really grown on me."

"Oh, come on," the doctor protests.

"Man, don't even try. The food in here is so bad I almost tried to eat my sheets a couple times."

The corner of the doctor's mouth quirks up for a moment before he fixes his expression back into one of seriousness.

"Now," he says, "we've recommended a wheelchair or crutches, at least for the first month or so out, but Steve has adamantly insisted on a cane."

Dean gives Bobby a wide grin, self-deprecating and amused, a "how-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into-this" and a "now-you're-in-it-too" grin. Bobby tries to smile back, but all he can think is, four months? Wheelchair? Jesus. The boy is obviously a lot worse than he'd let on.

"And if you insist on using a cane, you must wear the leg brace." The doctor is looking at Dean, now. "You have to use that leg brace or you'll end up in a wheelchair, and this time you won't have a choice. You hear me, Steve?"

"Jesus," Dean says. "You'd think we haven't been over this a thousand times before."

"I'll keep saying it until I think it's sunk into that concrete head of yours," the doctor says, making a note on his clipboard. "How about I show your uncle how to work it, in case you need help?"

"I don't think that's necessary," Dean says quickly, as Bobby steps forward.

"Steve," Bobby says. "Maybe the doc's got a point."

"Bobby," Dean says, "we can go over all this stuff later. I just want to get out of here."

"And if you don't want to end up back here, you'll wear the leg brace. And take it easy, Steve. Easy. Use the crutches if you need them. I'm writing you a voucher for a wheelchair, too. Just in case. Show it to the nurse who brings you out. Take it easy. I really don't want to see you back here."

"I'll miss you too, Doc," Dean says, and the two men shake hands. The doctor buzzes for a nurse and leaves the room.

Alone, finally, Bobby turns to Dean and folds his arms.

"So," he says. "This maybe a little worse than you told me on the phone?"

"Hey, I'm fine, Bobby," Dean says, wheeling himself over to the bed to pick up his sweatshirt. "Just a little – "

"—banged up," Bobby finishes. "So you said. Want to tell me what happened?"

Dean shrugs. "I was hunting a nasty spirit up in the woods round here," he says, "in an old cabin. Floor fell through. I happened to be standing on the floor at the time."

"And the leg? Broke?"

Dean nods tersely. "Pretty much shattered, hip to ankle. Had three surgeries. That's why I've been here so damn long. Now I've got more pins in there than a porcupine."

"Is it gonna get better?" Bobby asks. No use beating around the bush, not with Dean.

Dean is silent for a moment, then shrugs again. "Maybe some. They say in a week or two I should be able to drive short distances. At some point I'll be able to get up and down the stairs. But. You know. I'm kind of fucked up."

Bobby nods, keeping his expression neutral even as his heart sinks. "What are you going to do? You can't keep hunting."

"What are you talking about? Of course I can. I just have to get back into shape. Figure some stuff out."

"Dean – "

"Oh, so the car's in a garage a few blocks away, a place called Frank's," Dean says, wheeling himself over to a table in the corner and ripping a strip off a piece of paper. "Ask for Frank. He owed me a favor and he'll give you the keys without charging you anything."

"Dean – "

"I'll be out front when you get back," Dean says, handing him the address of the garage. "I'll be just under the outpatient sign." He looks up, a fierce glint suddenly in his eye. "And Bobby – you better drive her carefully. It's been a while. Clutch might stick a little. But jesus, be gentle."

"I'll handle her as if she were my own," Bobby promises, giving up on the idea of a serious conversation. They'll plenty of time for that on the way back.

"Oh, fuck, man, don't say that. Shit. Half the cars you own are piled in a junk heap in the back of your yard."

Bobby rolls his eyes and started for the door. "Don't go running off on me," he warns. "Be outside when I get back. Don't want to have to run around this whole damn hospital looking for you."

"Run off on you," Dean says. "That's funny."

Dean was right. The clutch does stick. But that doesn't stop the tiny twinge of pleasure Bobby feels as he slides the car backwards down the drive of the garage and into the street. He's always wanted a chance behind the wheel of this thing, though he'd have never wished for that chance to come under these circumstances. But still. Damn. It -- excuse me, SHE -- really is a fine car.

When he pulls up next to the curb of the hospital, Dean's face lights up with a quiet reverence.

"Hey, baby," he says softly, and the nurse looks nervously from Bobby to Dean until she realizes that the endearment is directed at the vehicle.

Bobby opens up the passenger side door, and the nurse hands Dean a geriatric-looking cane, which he takes with a mock-salute of thanks. Bobby goes around to help him out of the chair, putting a shoulder under his and hoisting him up. Dean doesn't protest, lowering himself into the car with a wince and an audible hiss of pain. He uses his hands to pick his bad leg up and maneuver it inside. Bobby folds up the wheelchair, with some help from the nurse – damn thing is confusing – and stuffs it in the back.

"Hey Bobby," Dean calls from the front seat. "Grab that duffle in the trunk for me?"

Bobby tosse the bag at Dean and peels away from the hospital with a squeal of tires that makes Dean cringe.

"Fuck," he says, "are you actively trying to fuck up my tires? Relax. We got time."

Yeah, Bobby thinks, watching Dean wince as he rearranges himself in the seat, trying to get comfortable. Probably a lot more time than either of them has bargained for.

To be continued ...