Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, and I never will!

Characters: Dean and Sam, with small mentions of John

Setting: Pre-Pilot

Warnings/Additional Notes: Teen!Chesters. Dean, 19; Sam, 15.

Five Ouches of Sam Winchester

"Your turn to take out the trash, Sammy."

Now, normally, Sam would have disagreed with his big brother's declaration. He was fairly certain he'd taken out the trash yesterday. And the day before that had been John. And the day before that…Sam again.

Thinking back, Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had taken out the trash. He seemed to be pretty good at worming out of it, and for a second Sam wondered if he should maybe call him on it.

But, like an idiot—or maybe just a teenager who'd only gotten a few hours of sleep last night—Sam decided he was too tired to argue and went to take the bag out to the garbage bins.

So, giving in was his first mistake.

Deciding not to put on shoes was the second.

This month's cheap little apartment featured huge garbage bins located in the parking lot, and Sam covered the short distance quickly, bare feet silent on the ground, attesting to years of training that stuck with him constantly, under any and all circumstances. It was that same training that made him look up and around as he lifted the lid of the bin and tossed the bag inside—and, therefore, caused him not to look down in time to see the cat.

Later, Sam would concede that the cat was probably just a pet that had gotten loose and run scared of some dog or something. At the time, though, he was pretty sure the cat was possessed, demonic, and evil when it ran straight over him, hissing, spitting, and yowling.

Sam stood still for a moment after it passed, his hand still resting on the trash bin lid. Then he glanced down at his feet, at the two long, thin, deep, bloody scratches in the left one, and ran inside to pummel his brother before the stinging really started.

XXX

It wasn't often that Sam—or any Winchester, really—actually managed to injure themselves. Usually, it was with the help of a spirit or a monster that they were hurt—they were pretty careful in downtime, when they weren't hunting.

But accidents do happen, and it was by sheer accident that Sam somehow managed to stretch his left leg in exactly the wrong way while warming up to spar with Dean, not long after his damn cat scratches had begun to heal.

The pain had hit without any warning. One second he'd been comfortably stretching his leg, and the next he was collapsing to the floor, his leg curled up under him while pain shot through it like so many knives.

"Sam?" he heard Dean say across the room, a second before his brother dropped down next to him and put a hand on the leg he was holding. "Sam, what's up? What hurts?"

Like it's not obvious. Sam gritted his teeth and didn't answer—Dean's punishment for his stupid question would be to just wait.

After a couple of minutes, though, the pain became less like knives and more like intermittent, throbbing little hammers. Cautiously, slowly, Sam straightened his leg, and breathed a sigh of relief when it only responded with the hammers, not more of the knives. Actually, it felt a little better once it was fully stretched out, and Sam rolled onto his back with a wince and smiled sheepishly up at Dean.

"Think I just screwed up something in my leg."

"Bad?" Dean asked, his eyes dark with concern.

Sam shook his head. "Nah. Just hurts. I'll be fine. Don't think I can spar today, though."

"Well, duh," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He put a hand under Sam's arm and said, "C'mon, let's get you up and to the couch on three."

Actually, the leg didn't feel bad to walk on, as long as he didn't put much weight on it. Yeah, he'd definitely be fine—pain-free pretty soon, probably.

He really did feel that way—right up until he stubbed his toe on the edge of the couch.

Then he just got downright annoyed.

XXX

Fortunately, Sam's injury healed after only a few days of constant aching.

Unfortunately, things just went downhill from there.

Literally.

Sam never really did figure out how he'd managed it. Usually he was far less clumsy. But lately his luck had been just plain rotten, and today he somehow managed to skip a step walking down the stairs and fall—hitting every single step on the way down.

Of course, John was on a job—again—so it was Dean who came to get him from school and take him to the emergency room, where—of course—his left foot was pronounced broken.

So, to sum up.

The crime: falling down the stairs.

The sentence: four weeks on crutches, two weeks in a walking cast, and two months of forced downtime.

Also, a whole host of new nicknames—"gimp," "crip," and "hop-along" being a few of the most clever.

Personally, Sam felt that it was enough to qualify for cruel and unusual punishment, but then, what did he know?

After all, he had been lame enough to fall down the stairs.

That was Dean's very outspoken opinion, anyway.

XXX

About three weeks after Sam got his cast off, the Winchesters took off for Florida to investigate a weird sand-dwelling…thing…that had been killing people on the beaches down there.

Dean, of course, was ecstatic. Neither he nor Sam had ever been to the beach, oddly enough, and they were both looking forward to taking care of the job and maybe—maybe—having one day of R&R to enjoy the place.

That had been the plan.

Of course, as usual, John couldn't leave his sons' own plans alone, so naturally he went and screwed it up.

Only thing was, he screwed it up in a way that made Sam actually want to hug him, because this time, John's idea of changing his sons' plan was to tell them he'd do the research on this one, and that they could go spend a day on the beach if they kept an eye out for the creature, and talk to any witnesses if the opportunity presented itself.

It was a way better deal than they usually got, and Sam and Dean took it without question.

The ocean in real life was…well, it was pretty much just freaking awesome. Sam had never seen anything like it in his life, and he was pretty sure this was gonna be a day to remember—in a good way.

He remained pretty sure of this until he got sunburned.

Badly.

On his left foot only.

And seriously, wasn't it enough already?

XXX

Sam's first assignment in his latest Creative Writing class was a personal narrative. There weren't a lot of rules or guidelines—it could be funny, sad, philosophical, anything, as long as it stemmed from personal experience.

Sam didn't have to think long about his topic—he had limited choices, anyway, considering where he got most of his life stories from. Almost before his teacher had finished giving the assignment, Sam had a piece of paper out and was scrawling the title of his narrative.

Me and My Left Foot

by Sam Winchester

Author's Note: Sorry, guys. I know a few people were expecting the first chapter of my PATES sequel, but I just had to jot this down real quick. Hope you enjoyed my lame attempt at humor. If you didn't…well, maybe you'll enjoy the fact that every single one of Sam's injuries in this story actually happened to me. Including the last one, the sunburn. No idea how that happened, but it did. I just kind of changed some of the circumstances to fit Sam's life.

Anyway, enough of my babbling. I'll be working on the PATES sequel and getting it up as soon as I can.