Tremble and Shake
Title: Tremble and Shake
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1300
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them before I got them out of the box.
Summary: Dean breaks his leg. But he's fine, really. Sam is just being paranoid.
Birthday fic forsi_star_x who asked for leg-breakage and crutches. Happy Birthday! I hope this is somewhat, slightly, more or less what you were hoping for.
Obviously, this is the fill for 'Broken Bones' on my angst_bingo card.
Mostly, living with Dean is like taking care of a bipolar five year-old who refuses to take off his cowboy costume. Ever.
Funny how in the four years they were apart, Sam grew up and Dean went full on Benjamin Button.
One minute he's on top of the world, hooting and cheering because he found the perfect, roundest onion ring ever, the next he is beating himself up because he didn't hit the werewolf quite in the heart on the first try, before he turns around and declares his status as demi-god to the entire word because he can rattle off all the lyrics to Bat out of Hell.
And while it's cute for an actual five year-old to be living in a parallel universe where he's the shit and nothing can touch him as long as he wears his magic boots, it's slightly less adorable when you're dealing with a grown-ass man pretending to be a preschooler, pretending to be a cowboy.
"Get off me, Sam, I can walk to my own goddamn car!"
"Sorry," Sam huffs, raises both hands in mock surrender and takes a step back to watch Dean's pointless struggle to hobble from his bed to the door, his right leg weighed down by a huge cast.
"Nothin' to be sorry for," Dean grumbles through clenched teeth. "My own damn fault I got hurt."
Sam groans. Somehow, Dean has managed to convince himself that it's entirely his fault a pissed off pilgrim hurled him all the way across the cemetery and his leg slammed into the edge of some ancient grave stone, snapping his shin in half. In the twisted way Dean's brain works that means he isn't allowed to accept Sam's help or use his crutches or even take his fucking painkillers. A couple years ago Sam would've found it hilarious. Now he's sort of torn between hugging Dean until he's not broken and messed up anymore and punching him in the nose. He feels that way about his brother a lot of the time actually.
Dean hasn't even made it from his bed to the door, much less his car and already his shirt is drenched in sweat, the color draining from his face, sounds like he's holding back a desperate yelp with every clumsy hobble he takes towards the door.
"At least use your goddamn crutches," Sam sighs and Dean shoots him a look of utter disgust.
"They're the wrong size," he pants before he takes a deep breath and hops another three inches towards the door.
For the record, the crutches are exactly the right size. Sam even tried them out at the Salvation Army store and they were a couple inches too short for him. They fit his brother perfectly, Dean's just bitching because the first time he tried them out, one of them slid out from under his armpit and he ended up propped against the wall, desperately clutching his injured leg with one hand, the cheap plastic table with the other, waiting for Sam to get back from his coffee run to help him back to bed.
Sam watches his brother's pointless struggle for another minute. The laces on the one shoe he's wearing are undone, get crushed and tangled under the heavy boot with every clumsy skip and it's really only a matter of time before he'll trip and break something else.
Dean's visibly panting by the time he even comes close to reaching the door, his good leg trembling with the effort to keep him upright, balance shot to hell.
"You know, I could carry you to the car," Sam says, half amused, half exasperated.
Dean shoots him another dirty look, throws all his weight forwards and finally manages to overbalance. Big fucking surprise that is. Sam is by his brother's side in less than a second, before Dean's bad leg can catch much of his weight and still, Dean's face goes completely white, when his teeth grind together to keep from yelling out in pain. His breath comes out in painful, chopped off gasps around slightly parted lips.
Sam expects to be pushed back, maybe be called a girl for his efforts to save his brother from a first class faceplant into the disgusting carpet, but all Dean does is sway slightly back and forth, grabs Sam's arm with one clammy hand and drops his head until it's almost resting on Sam's shoulder.
"You okay?" Sam asks helplessly, just as Dean stars mumbling quietly.
"S'okay," he slurrs. "Gimme a...just gimme...I just need..."
"You just need to get back to bed," Sam decides, because even hyperactive cowboys can't keepgoing like this, even if they insist they need to be on the road and find themselves new cases they can't work because of their busted leg.
"Checkout," Dean forces out through clenched teeth. Sam feels small puffs of air brush against his shoulder.
"We'll stay another night," he says and feels more than sees Dean shake his head.
"I c'n do it," he pants, twists his head slightly to nod in the direction of the door, like that's the most he can do right now.
"Dean," Sam snaps and feels guilty when Dean immediately shrinks back at that tone. It doesn't work when he's not running on fumes, but sometimes all Sam needs to do is force his voice into a low, smooth-rough rumble and Dean's his bitch. Fucking pavlovian's what it is. "Bed."
It's an awkward shuffle, with Dean's arm around Sam's shoulders, Sam's shirt bunched up under his clenching fingers, his injured leg dangling uselessly between them and all of a sudden the bed seems impossibly far away. Each step sends a new spasm of pain through Dean's entire body, makes him shudder and push little fingerprint bruises into Sam's arm. "Fuck," he breathes over a bitten off yelp when Sam takes a slightly too big step and Dean's leg brushes against the floor.
"That's it," Sam decides. "You're taking your painkillers." and Dean doesn't even put up a token fight.
"I'm sorry," he says later, when he's settled down with all of Sam's pillows propping up his foot. His freckles still stand out more than usual and Sam wonders if it's time to upgrade from the hospital prescribed Ibuprofen to some of their not-exactly-legal Vicodin.
"Will you stop apologizing for getting hurt?" Sam blurts, louder and with more reproach in his voice than he really meant.
Dean shrugs, looks down. Close enough to a second apology to make Sam's blood boil.
"'s not about getting hurt," Dean mumbles and starts playing with the soggy icepack Sam for some reason thought would help if he put it on top of his brother's huge ass cast. "More like...sorry for ruining your day."
"Ruining my day?" Sam echos. "How'd you ruin my day?"
Dean shrugs awkwardly. Clears his throat loudly and longer than strictly necessary. "Just...I figure you got better things to do than sit around in a crappy motel room all day to watch my ass. You could be out there, I dunno, getting an education, hangin' with your Stanford buddies..."
Sam just stares at his brother, wonders if he can write this off as another side to the manic depressive cowboy who apparently also has abandonment issues.
"Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams," Dean starts half singing, half mumbling tonelessly. "Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems...I know I'm useless like this, Sammy. Let's just get the Impala and go."
I do want to stay with you, Sam thinks. And I don't think you're useless and that leg will start cramping if you stay in the car all day and I really don't want you to be in pain.
"Wanna watch some TV?" he asks instead. "I feel like watching that Beavis and Butthead marathon."
Sam tosses the remote over to his brother's bed and hopes suffering through an entire day of mind numbing fart jokes for his big brother's sake will say all that.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1300
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them before I got them out of the box.
Summary: Dean breaks his leg. But he's fine, really. Sam is just being paranoid.
Birthday fic forsi_star_x who asked for leg-breakage and crutches. Happy Birthday! I hope this is somewhat, slightly, more or less what you were hoping for.
Obviously, this is the fill for 'Broken Bones' on my angst_bingo card.
Mostly, living with Dean is like taking care of a bipolar five year-old who refuses to take off his cowboy costume. Ever.
Funny how in the four years they were apart, Sam grew up and Dean went full on Benjamin Button.
One minute he's on top of the world, hooting and cheering because he found the perfect, roundest onion ring ever, the next he is beating himself up because he didn't hit the werewolf quite in the heart on the first try, before he turns around and declares his status as demi-god to the entire word because he can rattle off all the lyrics to Bat out of Hell.
And while it's cute for an actual five year-old to be living in a parallel universe where he's the shit and nothing can touch him as long as he wears his magic boots, it's slightly less adorable when you're dealing with a grown-ass man pretending to be a preschooler, pretending to be a cowboy.
"Get off me, Sam, I can walk to my own goddamn car!"
"Sorry," Sam huffs, raises both hands in mock surrender and takes a step back to watch Dean's pointless struggle to hobble from his bed to the door, his right leg weighed down by a huge cast.
"Nothin' to be sorry for," Dean grumbles through clenched teeth. "My own damn fault I got hurt."
Sam groans. Somehow, Dean has managed to convince himself that it's entirely his fault a pissed off pilgrim hurled him all the way across the cemetery and his leg slammed into the edge of some ancient grave stone, snapping his shin in half. In the twisted way Dean's brain works that means he isn't allowed to accept Sam's help or use his crutches or even take his fucking painkillers. A couple years ago Sam would've found it hilarious. Now he's sort of torn between hugging Dean until he's not broken and messed up anymore and punching him in the nose. He feels that way about his brother a lot of the time actually.
Dean hasn't even made it from his bed to the door, much less his car and already his shirt is drenched in sweat, the color draining from his face, sounds like he's holding back a desperate yelp with every clumsy hobble he takes towards the door.
"At least use your goddamn crutches," Sam sighs and Dean shoots him a look of utter disgust.
"They're the wrong size," he pants before he takes a deep breath and hops another three inches towards the door.
For the record, the crutches are exactly the right size. Sam even tried them out at the Salvation Army store and they were a couple inches too short for him. They fit his brother perfectly, Dean's just bitching because the first time he tried them out, one of them slid out from under his armpit and he ended up propped against the wall, desperately clutching his injured leg with one hand, the cheap plastic table with the other, waiting for Sam to get back from his coffee run to help him back to bed.
Sam watches his brother's pointless struggle for another minute. The laces on the one shoe he's wearing are undone, get crushed and tangled under the heavy boot with every clumsy skip and it's really only a matter of time before he'll trip and break something else.
Dean's visibly panting by the time he even comes close to reaching the door, his good leg trembling with the effort to keep him upright, balance shot to hell.
"You know, I could carry you to the car," Sam says, half amused, half exasperated.
Dean shoots him another dirty look, throws all his weight forwards and finally manages to overbalance. Big fucking surprise that is. Sam is by his brother's side in less than a second, before Dean's bad leg can catch much of his weight and still, Dean's face goes completely white, when his teeth grind together to keep from yelling out in pain. His breath comes out in painful, chopped off gasps around slightly parted lips.
Sam expects to be pushed back, maybe be called a girl for his efforts to save his brother from a first class faceplant into the disgusting carpet, but all Dean does is sway slightly back and forth, grabs Sam's arm with one clammy hand and drops his head until it's almost resting on Sam's shoulder.
"You okay?" Sam asks helplessly, just as Dean stars mumbling quietly.
"S'okay," he slurrs. "Gimme a...just gimme...I just need..."
"You just need to get back to bed," Sam decides, because even hyperactive cowboys can't keepgoing like this, even if they insist they need to be on the road and find themselves new cases they can't work because of their busted leg.
"Checkout," Dean forces out through clenched teeth. Sam feels small puffs of air brush against his shoulder.
"We'll stay another night," he says and feels more than sees Dean shake his head.
"I c'n do it," he pants, twists his head slightly to nod in the direction of the door, like that's the most he can do right now.
"Dean," Sam snaps and feels guilty when Dean immediately shrinks back at that tone. It doesn't work when he's not running on fumes, but sometimes all Sam needs to do is force his voice into a low, smooth-rough rumble and Dean's his bitch. Fucking pavlovian's what it is. "Bed."
It's an awkward shuffle, with Dean's arm around Sam's shoulders, Sam's shirt bunched up under his clenching fingers, his injured leg dangling uselessly between them and all of a sudden the bed seems impossibly far away. Each step sends a new spasm of pain through Dean's entire body, makes him shudder and push little fingerprint bruises into Sam's arm. "Fuck," he breathes over a bitten off yelp when Sam takes a slightly too big step and Dean's leg brushes against the floor.
"That's it," Sam decides. "You're taking your painkillers." and Dean doesn't even put up a token fight.
"I'm sorry," he says later, when he's settled down with all of Sam's pillows propping up his foot. His freckles still stand out more than usual and Sam wonders if it's time to upgrade from the hospital prescribed Ibuprofen to some of their not-exactly-legal Vicodin.
"Will you stop apologizing for getting hurt?" Sam blurts, louder and with more reproach in his voice than he really meant.
Dean shrugs, looks down. Close enough to a second apology to make Sam's blood boil.
"'s not about getting hurt," Dean mumbles and starts playing with the soggy icepack Sam for some reason thought would help if he put it on top of his brother's huge ass cast. "More like...sorry for ruining your day."
"Ruining my day?" Sam echos. "How'd you ruin my day?"
Dean shrugs awkwardly. Clears his throat loudly and longer than strictly necessary. "Just...I figure you got better things to do than sit around in a crappy motel room all day to watch my ass. You could be out there, I dunno, getting an education, hangin' with your Stanford buddies..."
Sam just stares at his brother, wonders if he can write this off as another side to the manic depressive cowboy who apparently also has abandonment issues.
"Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams," Dean starts half singing, half mumbling tonelessly. "Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems...I know I'm useless like this, Sammy. Let's just get the Impala and go."
I do want to stay with you, Sam thinks. And I don't think you're useless and that leg will start cramping if you stay in the car all day and I really don't want you to be in pain.
"Wanna watch some TV?" he asks instead. "I feel like watching that Beavis and Butthead marathon."
Sam tosses the remote over to his brother's bed and hopes suffering through an entire day of mind numbing fart jokes for his big brother's sake will say all that.