Upstairs, Bobby steps into the darkened room.

He watches the still figures on the bed. Two days of Sam's raging delirium and fevered anguish, the kid's barely discernable, hitching sobs had gutted him.

They sleep like only siblings can, tangled and boneless. Dean's a protective blanket between Sam and the door. He's bruised and scratched, his arms holding his little brother. Sam's shaggy head rests under Dean's chin. Sam's drooling, his spotty rash fading.

Dean's eyes open. A bleary green glare: NOT ONE WORD… and Dean's snoring.

Bobby bites his lip, looking away.

Turning back, he grins and takes the picture.