Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.
That's it, Dean thinks, this kid is so fucking dead.
The kid in question is a teenaged little punk who's been driving Dean nuts. Backwards hat, jeans riding low enough to show off his oversized boxer shorts, and a shit-eating grin that would rival Dean's own. He's been weaving in and out of traffic, flipping Dean the bird on a few occasions, and laughing every time he laps him on the floor.
Dean's making lazy ovals around the old-school wooden floor of the roller skating rink, kid in his sights, cursing Sam up, down, and sideways as he tries to keep his cool. The brothers Winchester had been called to investigate questionable occurrences in said blast from the past, both more than a little surprised that such things even still existed. Not even completely sure the rink has something Winchester-esque to take care of, they had nothing bigger brewing and decided it wouldn't hurt to at least take a look.
Actually, Sam thought that. Dean was just in it for the free nachos.
On their own, the questionable occurrences weren't all that odd. An exploding popcorn machine every now and again. An overflowing toilet in the men's bathroom. And every so often someone would complain that the laces of their roller-skates had been cut. But the manager was a friend of a friend of someone who once dated Sam's roommate (or something like that, Dean wasn't really listening) and so Sam's heartstrings were tugged just enough to check it out.
And here they are on a late Thursday afternoon in the middle of summer in Nowheresville USA. Probably the only reason that the place is as full as it is is because there's nothing else going on in town (although the locals are all atwitter about the upcoming County Fair and Tractor Pull) combined with the fact that it's summer and school's out. And it's air conditioned.
Dean's taken up the offers of free sodas and food while Sam's been painstakingly trying to wheedle information out of the manager. "Hey man, you're so hot and bothered to check this one out, you do the heavy lifting" had been Dean's exact words to Sam. These places gave him the skeeves. Ever since that summer Leslie Johnson dumped him unceremoniously during Couples Skate. (While Dean can admit that Bon Jovi rocks on occasion, "Bed of Roses" still makes his upper lip curl in disgust.)
After meandering around the building aimlessly for a little while, half-heartedly poking into dark corners full of nothing more sinister than castoff skates and a broken disco ball, Dean starts to notice that some of the parents are giving him the stink eye. Probably think he's a pervert, there to spy on their unsuspecting children. He tries to scowl back, but then decides to go find Sam. Failing in that task as well, he decides to try to blend in, lest he get the police called on his ass for suspected ogling.
Speaking of ogling….
Dean's attention is grabbed by the perky backside of a young co-ed, tight Daisy Duke's not hampering her skating ability one bit. She brings the whistle hanging around her neck up to her mouth, gives Dean a wink, and blows out a couple of sharp tweets signaling a change of direction for the skaters.
Dean's mouth goes dry as he thinks about how lucky that whistle is.
As much as he would never admit it to Sam, he was actually pretty good at this kind of thing once upon a time. So he laces up and heads out to the floor of the rink, gradually feeling the old mojo returning as he makes mindless loops around the polished floor. He's keeping his target in his sight, flirting with his eyes and facial expressions as only Dean Winchester can, when he begins to notice the little punk. He's carefully weighing his options – hot whistle girl versus teenaged hellion – when he catches Sam's eye.
He begins to make his way over to the wall Sam's leaning on, ready to smack the smirk off his brother's face, when the little punk clips Dean, upending him in a spectacular slow motion fall that sends his arms cartwheeling to the disco strobe light beat of "Another One Bites the Dust". Somewhere in the back of Dean's brain, the irony is not lost.
The forefront of Dean's mind, however, is otherwise occupied as he lands on his right arm, his full body weight driving his elbow into the hard wooden floor. He feels a sickening crunch from said elbow that immediately steals his breath away and threatens to unleash the nachos he's inhaled not too long ago.
He just lays there for a couple of moments, curled up on his right side, wheels of his skates lazily spinning while his fellow skaters try to avoid causing a ten car pileup.
Sam's initial disappointment that he left his phone in the car and therefore can't capture Dean's image for use in future blackmail attempts is replaced by growing concern as Dean fails to get up. He hustles over and kneels beside his brother, watching as Dean pants in an effort to get himself under control.
The whistle girl pulls up alongside them and the lightbulb goes on in Sam's head – of course Dean was chasing a girl. She glances down at the two of the them, a concerned look on her face, then quickly ushers the curious onlookers to the far side of the floor where she engages them in a rousing rendition of the Limbo.
Too bad Dean's otherwise occupied. Her shorts really don't leave much to the imagination.
"Heyheyhey," Sam says, laying a hand on Dean's left shoulder. "It's okay, you're okay." He gets a brief nod from Dean, unspoken allowance to continue. "Let me see."
Dean gives another couple of pants, then "Can't…" A few deep breaths, "Can't feel my arm."
Sam's eyebrows raise fractionally, and he delves further into triage mode. He slides his fingers into the loosely curled fist of Dean's right hand. "Ok, squeeze my hand." Sam feels a faint flicker around his fingers, but even that causes Dean to inhale sharply and break out in a cold sweat. Sam changes his grip and breathes a sigh of relief when he feels a strong pulse at his brother's wrist.
He eases his brother up into a seated position and Dean immediately curls into himself, clutching his right elbow to his body like it might try to make a break for it. The change in position has worsened Dean's already pale complexion to a now more wax-like countenance and Sam takes stock of the possibilities for make shift vomit basins should the need arise. He makes short work of getting the skates off of Dean's feet and throws the manager a quick glance of relief when he hastens over with Dean's boots.
"Want me to figure out a sling?"
Dean shakes his head, not wanting to move his arm one iota.
"Hospital?" Sam asks, after he and the manager have managed to get Dean onto his unsteady feet.
"Crap," Dean replies weakly.
General Winchester rule of thumb: you go to the hospital if you can't feel something you really should be able to feel.
()o()o()o()o()
Dean's fractured his elbow and the distal part of his humerus and, added bonus, he's managed to displace them as well. Both the ER doctor and the orthopedic specialist try to reduce the fractures in the ER, but Dean's arm is as stubborn as he is. And while the attempts to get his bones to line back up the right way aren't successful, they are successful in unleashing Dean's spectacular vocabulary. Even in his semi-drugged state he's able to bring a blush to the ears of the patients in the surrounding exam rooms while they're tugging on his arm.
And so, Dean ends up in emergency surgery, where it takes the insertion of several pins to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
()o()o()o()o()
Dean raises his head from where it's been resting against the seat of the Impala and tries his best to glare at the latest fly in his ointment. He's got an ACE-wrapped splint in place from his wrist to just below his shoulder, elbow bent at a 90-degree angle, the whole thing encased in a sling to help hold him together. He'll have to go back to get it casted once the swelling goes down.
While he's relieved that he can at least wiggle his fingers and feel his hand again, he isn't sure that numbness wouldn't be the better option at this point. Because his arm is friggin' killing him. A deep throbbing pain at rest that ratchets up to a "where's the nearest sharp object so I can cut off my own arm" level with the slightest movement which, combined with the remnants of the anesthesia, are bringing him dangerously close to asking Sam to stop the car so he can ralph up anything still tucked into the corners of his stomach. He'd already blessed the PACU with his stomach contents several times prior to being discharged; he's not entirely convinced that there won't be an encore performance.
"You okay, man?" Sam asks at annoying intervals. He throws quick glances in Dean's direction before bringing his attention back to the road, trying to gage the level of his brother's pain and not liking the greenish tinge of his face. "Tell me if I need to stop, okay?"
Dean nods weakly, praying he doesn't have to subject his Baby to a display of his stomach pyrotechnics.
()o()o()o()o()
Both Sam and Dean let out almost inaudible sighs when they pull up in front of their motel room. Sam scrambles around and opens the door for Dean who's just sitting in the passenger's seat, preparing himself for another change in altitude. He works his legs out of the car first, then holds up his left hand in an unspoken request for Sam to give him a few seconds. Cradling his right arm with his left, he finally deep breaths himself to a standing position while Sam hovers in the off-chance that Dean decides to suddenly inspect the ground.
Sam guides his still flagging brother into their room, gently depositing Dean onto his bed where he sags against the headboard in relief. Sam eyes his brother's boots, resting on the bed in all of their filth, and leans in to remove them in a brotherly gesture.
Dean cracks an eyelid and reflexively jerks his foot out of Sam's hand, too late remembering that sudden movements are not his friend right now. A wave of almost unbearable pain races up his arm where it threatens to scramble his brain and send him into the black unawareness of unconsciousness. He grabs his arm and Sam watches, hands still poised at Dean's feet, as Dean tilts sideways to his left in a controlled motion, buries his face in the pillow, and lets out a low moan.
"Dean, man," Sam says in an urgent whisper, "you've gotta chill out. Let me help you."
Sam strains to hear Dean's muffled reply, although he's pretty sure he's glad he can't make out the string of curses Dean's put together. Dean finally turns his head out of the pillow and says to his brother, "Fuckin hurts, Sam."
Sam rolls his eyes and says, "Yeah, I know. That's why I'm trying to help you."
Neither of them are sure they can put up with this for six to eight weeks.
()o()o()o()o()
Dean's focused on her mouth, full lips surrounding the whistle as she purses and blows. And his subconscious wonders what else her mouth's good for. And as that thought flits through his brain before detouring for parts further south, he moves to roll over into a more comfortable viewing position, sending a fire ball up his right arm.
He comes fully awake in an instant, gasping for breath as he remembers why his arm feels like it's been put through a meat grinder. From where he's lying, he can see it propped up on a stack of pillows (now precariously tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa) and the memories of yesterday hit him smack in the face. Punk kid. Broken arm. Surgery. Rollerskating. Rollerskating? He always knew something stupid would be the death of him. Monsters – not a problem; weekend activity for lame teenagers – catastrophe.
Dean bites back a groan as he tries to haul himself into a seated position with a minimal amount of jostling.
Sam looks up from where he's been working on his computer and does a brief full-body sweep, taking in his brother's sleep heavy eyes, disheveled hair, and pain-etched face. "Hey," he says with a hopeful smile – today's bound to be better, right? "How're you feeling?"
Dean shoots him one of his patented Death Glares and tries to gently reposition his splinted arm with his left while he slumps back against the headboard. "Just peachy," he replies, voice still gravelly from anesthesia. "This thing's a friggin' basket of kittens," he says, nodding at his arm. He continues mumbling mostly to himself, "Impossible to get comfortable, can't hold my knife…" He lightly bangs his head against the wall a couple of times to emphasize his level of disgust at his current situation and then heaves a sigh.
"You wanna go get breakfast?" Sam asks, still eyeing his brother.
Dean rubs his face with his left hand, before casting his sleepy glance around the room. "Breakfast? What time is it?"
"Ten."
"AM?" he asks, brain too slow to register the sunlight pouring in through the thinly veiled curtains.
Sam casts another concerned glance at his brother, the obviousness of the daylight not lost on him. "Uh, yeah," he says succinctly, giving his brother a pass. For now.
Dean gives breakfast a consideration, notes that the post-anesthesia stomach gymnastics are no longer a threat, and agrees that food sounds like a good option.
"Just let me get a shower first."
"How are you…" Sam begins as Dean slowly makes his way to the edge of the bed.
"Not my first time in a plastic bag Sam," Dean says, hugging his right arm to himself as he swings his legs onto the floor. He and his brother have had enough broken bones to know the best ways to keep a cast from getting wet. And while he doesn't have a cast (yet), the surgeon had told him to treat his splint just as he would a cast. Don't get it wet. Don't even think about removing it.
He stands up without incident, then lets out a string of curses when he tries to unbutton the jeans he'd been too tired to remove the night before.
"You okay over there?" asks Sam, his tone a mixture of real concern and amusement at his brother's predicament.
"Fuck that hurts," Dean reiterates when it becomes obvious that his right hand isn't up to its usual fine-motor control. He briefly tries to accomplish the task with his left hand, letting out a low growl of frustration when that fails him as well.
"Want me…" Sam weakly offers, broken off by Dean's sharp "No!"
"Fine," Sam mumbles to himself, returning to his computer screen while trying to surreptitiously follow Dean's progress.
Dean finally gives a grunt, working the jeans off one-handed and kicking them off of his feet in disgust. The boxers shouldn't be anywhere near as difficult. The shirt, on the other hand, could be kind of tricky.
He reaches his left arm across his body and grabs hold of the right bottom of his T shirt in what he thinks has the best chance of success. He gets the shirt as far as his shoulder before he realizes that his arm won't move enough to accommodate the rest of the maneuver.
"Want me to cut it off?" Sam offers, startling Dean out of his contemplation.
"What? No!" Dean replies with indignation. "I'm running low on T shirts as it is." He gives it a few more seconds of thought before coming up empty. "Help?" he says softly.
"I'm sorry. What was that?" Sam knows he's dangerously close to getting a smack on the back of his head, but he has to cherish these moments of brotherly love.
Dean, reading Sam's enjoyment in the situation, just throws him a mental "Fuck You", wincing when his right middle finger attempts the same.
Sam rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, calculating how to help his big brother without adding additional pain. He gently eases the shirt up the same way Dean had tried, having better luck in guiding the sleeve off of the splinted arm with the use of two hands. Three, if you count Dean's left hand which is slowly helping to reposition his right around Sam's maneuvers.
Sam casts a quick glance around the room, finds a couple of clean plastic bags with the room's ice bucket, and makes short work of getting Dean's splinted arm waterproofed. They're going to need to make a run for garbage bags and Duct tape before long.
Showering goes off without much of a hitch. Dean's been in this situation before, although the typical short arm cast isn't usually this big or cumbersome. But he's already resigned himself to the fact that besides the right arm that won't be uncovered for about two months, his left arm won't be getting washed for the foreseeable future either.
Once he determines that he's reached as many places as he can, he dries himself off rather haphazardly, then clutches the towel around his waist in a one-handed death grip.
"You okay?" Sam asks again as he emerges from the bathroom and he gives a quick nod, concentrating on making it over to his duffel bag without dropping the towel. Or his right arm falling off. Because without the sling or his arm for support, gravity is being a real bitch.
He makes short work at getting into a clean pair of boxers, then allows Sam to help him in a reversal of their prior clothing dance. Once his shirt's in place, he holds onto to his right arm with his left and even allows Sam to help him with his pants. Because he's an awesome big brother.
Clean and clothed, Dean completes his ensemble with the sling, gingerly sliding his arm in place as Sam gets it into its proper position and adjusts the strap.
"Better?" Sam asks, giving his brother a gentle pat on his left shoulder.
Dean pauses, giving serious contemplation to the question, then lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gives a quick nod.
"Here," Sam says, shaking a pain pill into Dean's hand before his brother knows what he's doing. Sam knows his brother won't ask for pain medications, will try to deny that he needs them. He also knows how cranky he gets when he's in pain and would rather head that beast off at the pass.
Dean eyeballs the small white tablet, considers telling Sam he's fine. Then dry swallows it as his arm reminds him of its recent surgical endeavors. It's times like these that Dean's glad his brother knows him so well.
To Be Continued…