If Life Were Fair by Bird2K

Chapter One

If life were fair, the name Winchester would not be associated with murder, grave desecrations and credit card fraud. No, it would conjure up feelings of safety and protection from evil and two hot guys in a smoking car. Wait, are you really thinking of Sam as hot? Must have hit your head harder than you thought… But after almost 3 decades of this shit, you have come to realise that the world really isn't all that fair. You weren't kidding when you told Hendrickson he knew crap about your dad – Hell, you're not sure how much even you knew about your dad. But you at least know he was a hero and he taught you many things. Chief among them, and the most useful right now, was how to deal with pain. The physical kind, anyway…

Ahh, and here comes Sammy. Boy he looks pissed but no change there.

"Dean! Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

Thinking? Does he know you at all??

"Hey Sammy. You alright?"

"Me? Dude you were the one who just launched yourself at a demon possessed body builder with no weapons and a dislocated shoulder!"

You grimace as he collapses in a relieved heap next to you and starts running his giant paws over your legs and torso, checking for more injuries. At least, that's what you hope he's doing …

"Hey, Dude, a little personal space here! I know you don't get much action but quit copping a feel …"

You don't get a chance to finish as one of Sam's unnaturally large hands makes contact with your injured ribs and you can't help but suck in your breath and hiss it back out again accompanied by a low groan.

"Ok, so dislocated shoulder and maybe a couple'a broken ribs." Sam sits back on his heels giving you an appraising look, taking in the blood running down your face. He presses gently either side of the cut on your forehead, feeling the lump that goes with it and you try not to wince as you jerk away. "That's quite a crack you've got there too. With the force you hit that wall, don't think we can rule out concussion either." He pauses in his ministrations and runs a critical eye over your prone form in the gloom, "Is it even worth me asking if it hurts anywhere else?" He finally asks.

"Nah, Sammy. I'm good. Just help me up would ya?" And you are proud of the way you kept the slur in your voice to a minimum. Even you have to admit, you did hit that wall pretty hard. Damn demon strength. Why does everything you meet feel the need to slam you into the nearest hard surface? Maybe arrange the next fight in a pillow factory – no, no, marshmallows. That'd be good. You like marshmallows and, oh crap, your minds wandering again and Sam's stood there with that look on his face: worry warring with anger and maybe just a hint of exasperated hero worship vying for attention.

He bends down slightly and grasps your good arm in his left hand, whilst hooking his right around your back and under your injured shoulder, trying to avoid touching your ribs or jostling your dislocated joint anymore than necessary. Between the pair of you, you're pulled up into a fairly vertical position with the minimum of groaning on your part. Sam is forced to remain partially bent over so he can put your uninjured arm around his shoulders and help guide you out of the ruined building and to the waiting Impala.

No matter how injured you are the sight of your baby sitting so patiently where you left her, ready to carry you away to safety never ceases to lift your spirits and your staggering gait speeds up a little. Sam shoots you a disapproving look as you stumble forward and he is forced to bend down even further to re-adjust your weight and prevent you both from losing your balance and ending up face down in the road.

You arrive beside the Chevy and Sam leans your weight against the passenger side as he fishes in his pocket for his set of keys and opens the door before helping you lower inside. It isn't until he has shut the door and made his way around to the drivers side himself that you think to put up resistance.

"Hey, who said you could drive?"

Sam just shoots you another withering look and starts the engine. You have always found the deep rumbling vibration of the engine soothing and you feel yourself begin to drift, leaving behind the pain and floating with soft, white marshmallow clouds … what is it with you and marshmallows at the moment? Maybe you do have a concussion. Sam's worried voice cuts into your thoughts.

"Dean, hey, stay with me man. I know you're tired, but just try and stay awake until we get back to the motel and I can check you out properly. Ok?"

You grunt non-commitally but try and keep your eyes open and focused on the passing scenery. You can see Sam shooting you concerned looks out of the corner of your eye but you're just too sore and frankly bone weary to get into anything with him right now.

You pass the rest of the way in blissful silence. Sam continuing to watch you and make sure you remain conscious but obviously biting back his incessant need to talk to you and just let you rest as best you can.

Once back at the motel, the manoeuvring out of the car is even more painful than folding yourself in it had been. Your joints had all stiffened up during the journey and you can't bite back the groan of pain as Sam again has to help haul you to your feet.

"You alright man?" he asks. His expressive hazel eyes for once unreadable in the dim light of the parking lot.

You make another non-committal grunt; you have a whole range of them at your disposal so figure you may as well make use of them, and stagger with him to the motel room. Sam deposits you gently onto the nearest bed and then lopes back out to retrieve the first aid kit from the Impala.

You sit as still as possible whilst you wait for Sam to gather all the things he'll need to patch you up, again. You hate to admit it but every tiny movement sends bolts of pain from your ribs to your ruined shoulder and then up through your head which feels like a herd of migrating wildebeest are charging through, wearing clogs and banging drums. And, wait, do wildebeest migrate? And why would you even care? Damn Sammy and his obsession with the Discovery Channel. You don't want to watch lemurs doing it - what's wrong with proper porn? No wonder the boy never gets laid …

"Hey, Dean, how you doing?"

You jump at the proximity of Sam's worried voice and even more worried face, and then really wish you hadn't as the wildebeest start their rampage anew.

"'M Okay." You mumble unconvincingly and Sam just shoots you yet another of those looks. You guess that 25 years of being your little brother has given him plenty of time to practice. Now he can combine up to 7 different but equally disapproving expressions in just one look. Impressive.

A sudden and worrying thought occurs to you, and you are embarrassed and frankly rather freaked that it has taken this long.

"What happened to the possessed Arnie wannabe, anyway?"

And, damn, the slur was even more evident now. Note to self: when attempting to downplay possible concussion to Sammy, avoid the word possessed. And the slight sway as you apply a white knuckled grip on the suddenly spinning bed. Both dead giveaways.

Sam helps you out of your jacket and shirt as carefully as he can before beginning to cut off your t-shirt. Ahh well, at least it wasn't one of your favourites this time.

"I took care of him."

At your questioning look, he continues,

"I found the Colt, where you dropped it when he threw you the first time. I nailed him after you did your whole kamikaze thing and he threw you against the wall again. Didn't you hear the shot?"

You didn't, which should worry you but you're far more concerned by Sam's behaviour. You're not sure which is worse, the complete lack of emotion in Sam's voice or the white hot anger you can see in his eyes as he tells you he just shot a man. Ok, so he was a possessed man who had been doing some truly awful things, not least of all whilst fighting the pair of you that evening. But still … this is Sammy, your sensitive little brother and as much as you always hated what he did to himself with the guilt of events which weren't his fault, as you stare into his angry eyes, you suddenly miss the angst.

You want to reach out in some way, provoke some reaction which is more 'Sam' but you're not good at this sort of stuff at the best of times. And now, with the stampeding wildebeest and the pain from your ribs and dislocated shoulder the only things keeping the fuzziness of your mind at bay, is definitely not one of them. You're saved from having to break the silence by Sam who is examining your injured shoulder with a tight look on his face.

"I think I can pop this back in myself. Shouldn't need a hospital. Do you want something for the pain first? You can't have anything too strong, 'cos of the concussion but you'll need something to at least take the edge off."

You gaze at Sam steadily, well, as steadily as you can whilst the bed is still rotating. He is avoiding eye contact as he rifles through the first aid supplies pulling out Ibuprofen and bandages and the suture kit, presumably for the injury to your head.

"Sam? Sam, look at me. Are you ok?"

He turns slowly and meets your eyes. You're surprised and a little intimidated at the amount of anger in his face but suppose it is better than nothing. Feeling anything is better than a constant, numbing cold, and you should know, right?

"Am I ok? Am I ok? You're sat there clinging on to the bed like you could be thrown off at any moment with blood dripping down your face, possibly broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. All because you threw yourself at a demon that I was handling perfectly well by myself!"

Well, even in your current condition you can't let that last bit slide …

"Handling, Sam? Handling? He had you pinned to a wall and was throttling you. How was that you handling him?"

"I had a plan, Dean. I …"

"A plan, Sam? A plan that involved you being choked to death?"

"Oh no, you don't get to do that to me! Mr Act-First-Think-Later-If-At-All. You do not get to lecture me on planning things out. That thing had attacked us both, threw you into a wall like a rag doll and you were just laying there. I didn't know if … if you were alright and I just had to get to the Colt and finish him. He grabbed me as I was trying to reach it and …"

"Started strangling you … yeah I saw. So what was I supposed to do, Sammy? Just watch him kill you? I had to get him off of you and …"

"And so you launched yourself at him like an attack dog. You didn't stop to think it would be easier to kill him if you took a few seconds to find the Colt, you just reacted. You always have to put yourself in the line of fire, even before you decided you were a dead man walking and now … Jesus, Dean, you can't just take on a demon with no weapon and a dislocated shoulder. What did you plan on doing? Rip your arm off the rest of the way and beat him to death with it?"

You can't help yourself, a dry chuckle escapes you at that, which quickly turns into a grunt of pain as your ribs are jolted and the Wildebeest begin their migration again.

This seems to knock Sam out of his mood and he immediately continues in his quest to put Humpty back together again. He hands you 2 tablets and as you put them in your mouth he passes you a glass of water which you dutifully sip to chase them down. Taking it away again he studies your injuries thoughtfully before beginning to clean your head wound.

"This should only need a few stitches, so I'll get them done whilst we wait for the painkillers to kick in. Hopefully that will take the edge off your shoulder long enough to pop it back in place."

You wish he'd stop keep saying 'pop it back in place' like it was the easiest thing in the world. 'Pop' was such an innocuous little word to use for something you knew from past experience was gonna hurt like a bitch.

"I don't think any of your ribs are actually broken, probably just badly bruised. We'll rest up for a few days though, give you some time to heal."

As Sam speaks he keeps his eyes on the wound he is carefully stitching. You don't need to be able to see what he's doing to know it will be clean and neat and probably won't even leave much of a scar for the chicks to fuss over. Everything Sam does is carefully considered, clean and neat. Even down to executing a demon. He did stop long enough to think and grab the Colt. He would never charge in weapon less – well, there was that one time with Gordon but they were exceptional circumstances – and that's why you know he'll be fine without you. Eventually. Despite having you to hide behind most of his life, he isn't the defenceless kid you sometimes treat him like. He can take care of himself, and without you dragging him into one battle after another, forcing him into trouble in order to get you out, he'll probably not even need half of the skills you have taught him. 'Cos yeah, you taught him how to fight, how to survive and you taught him well. There aren't many things you've done that you're proud of but raising Sam is number one on the list. Number two being re-building your baby, and number three is currently the fact you're still conscious, despite the pain, and the darkness now dancing at the edges of your vision.

If you're honest with yourself, which you rarely are these days, you sometimes wonder if Sam turned out so well because of you or in spite of you but you hope it's the former. Certainly, he'd have had a lot bumpier childhood if it had been just him and dad. You might annoy and exasperate him, intentionally or otherwise, to the point where he can no longer stand to be in the same room as you but you know, at least you think you know, he has always understood your good intentions. Understood that you only ever wanted what's best for him.

"Sorry, man. All done now."

Sam is speaking again and it takes you a moment to realise you must have winced as he tied the stitches off. He places a piece of gauze over the wound and carefully tapes it in place.

"Ok, now for the shoulder."

He steps back and looks you over again before carefully lifting your injured arm, holding it firmly he braces your shoulder with one of his freakishly large hands and looks you in the eye.

"You ready, Dean?"

You nod and he continues.

"Right, well you know the drill. On three - one, two, three …"

And you can't bite back the anguished cry as the joint 'pops' back into place and you slump forward, leaning into Sam's chest as sweat pours out of you and your vision tunnels. You're vaguely aware of a comforting weight on your head and soothing words in your brothers voice but you're suddenly too tired to care enough to try and make them out and so you let go and drift off, finally, on the marshmallow clouds.