I don't know, this just sorta... happened.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean or John, as much as I really want to hug Dean and slap John...

"Look at you. I can't believe you were clumsy enough to trip, leaving your bother unprotected against that spirit." John Winchester's words held pure venom, making Dean cringe. "Now he has a concussion because of you. How could you possibly be so stupid?"

Dean let out a shakey breath. "Sorry, sir," he said, making sure not to be too loud as to wake his sleeping brother in the backseat. Though how he was still resting through John's scream-fest was a mystery.

John clenched his jaw. "Sorry isn't going to cut it this time. You're lucky I got there when I did, or else Sammy would be gone right now."

Dean swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. But why weren't you there when the ghost was attacking us in the first place? Dean wanted to say, but thought better of it as his dad was already furious, and he didn't think his voice would work at that point. Hot tears sprang in his eyes at his father's harsh criticism, but he refused to let them fall. If any of them did fall down his too pale cheeks, he would claim it to injury. His ankle was throbbing and swelling like something nasty, and Dean had a bad feeling that it was fractured, or at least very badly sprained. A gnarled tree root had been in his path when running to help Sam (why were there always big tree roots in graveyards?), and he'd fallen, unable to get up. Walking to the car felt like getting hit by a bus, and it was a miracle he'd even made it to the passenger seat. His dad had been too busy helping Sammy to notice his eldest limping.

His dad was right. He had been especially stupid. How could he let his guard down like that? He'd run obstacle courses with much more hazards to face, and now he was tripped up by a freaking tree root? That was possibly the dumbest move ever. Next time, he'd be more cautious. He couldn't afford a massive screw-up like this again.

Dean leaned against the window, praying for relief in his ankle. It had taken up a burning feel, making Dean want to scream in agony. He tried to breath through the pain, but that only induced nausea.

"Hey kiddo, you alright?" John asked, voice softer but still holding a sharp accusation.

Dean nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth, lest he vomit all over the Impala. That would just make his dad even more angry with him. He would let his dad fix up his ankle when they got back to the motel. He was fine for now.

Though Dean didn't see it, he could tell that John shrugged. "Okay, but just tell me beforehand if you're gonna hurl."

Flinching at the word 'hurl,' Dean snuggled his body closer to the window, relishing the coolness of the window. He could hold up until they got back. Gazing blearily out the window, Dean sighed and nade a promise to himself to quit being as stupid. Maybe his dad would be proud of him then.

"Hey, idiot, watcha do to your foot?" By the overwhelming scent of cigarettes and B.O., Dean instantly recognized the guy who'd just stolen his cardboard pizza as Kurt Johnson. Dean glared at him from across the table, internally trying to keep himself from throttling the guy.

"Tripped trying to get away from you," he spat back, almost ready to just grab his crutches and get out, honestly not in the mood for his daily tormenter. "Go away, before I make you."

Kurt smirked. "Sorry, Dean-o, but I don't think you're up to it. Until your boo-boo's all healed up, there's nothing you can do to stop me." Just to make his point, he snatched away Dean's milk carton, too. As if Dean was actually going to drink that.

Dean ignored him, instead focusing on the cafeteria clock. Was there anyway he could will the minutes to go by faster?

"Hey, you look at me when I'm talking to you!" Dean's face was suddenly grabbed and pulled towards Kurt's, forcing Dean to become way too well acquainted with the bully's odious breath. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his jaw was too tight. "You're so stupid, Dean. A doofus, that's all you are."

Dean had honestly expected a punch, but Kurt and his gang only walked away after that, leving Dean to rub his jaw and try to hobble out of those poorly designed cafeteria benches. Closing his eyes to breath for a moment, Dean found both his father's and Kurt's words reverberating around his head. Stupid.

Dad left two days after their hunt, saying he'd caught wind of a vamp nest a few hours out. When Dean had begged to be brought along, he was shot down because of his healing ankle and the fact that he had to watch over Sammy. It was fair, he guessed. If Dean went, then so did Sammy, and since Dean hadn't been on a vampire hunt yet, he doubted his dad wanted ten year-old Sam to be exposed to that. Spirits were one thing, as John always said, but monsters can be ten times as dangerous. Dean understood, as there were so many types of monsters in the world that often you'd think it was a shifter when it was actually a rakshasa. The tiniest mistakes could be fatal.

All that, or maybe Dad just didn't want to hunt with him anymore. He had screwed up the last one.

"Dean, can we go to the library now?" Sam asked for what had to be the thousandth time since they'd arrived home from school.

"Dude, just what is so important about the library?" Dean growled, holding his pulsating head. He was trying to figure out how he could come up with this week's rent, as John hadn't left even close to the amount needed to pay for the motel, not to mention food. As always.

"My teacher says we gotta do a book report on a book we've never read, and I've read all of my books." Sam's large, hazel eyes peered at his brother from the other side of their small kitchenette. "Can we please go?"

Dean sighed. "Maybe in a bit. Don't you have homework you need to do or something?"

"I finished it all already." If Dean hadn't been so stressed, he might have grinned at the accomplished look on Sammy's face. The kid was too cute for his own good.

"I'll take you later," Dean conceded. "Chill out, geek boy."

Sam stuck out his tongue at his brother, before skipping away to see what was on their five channels of cable TV. Dean sighed, wishing for the intense pain in his ankle to go away. He didn't know if he'd be able to make it to the library, crutches or not. John Winchester had deemed it fractured, but only a bit. Dean was supposed to not put any weight on it, lest he wanted it wrapped to thrice its size for six more weeks. They were almost out of Advil, which greatly worried Dean since it was the only thing that took the pain away, if not for a little while. Add that to their ever growing shopping list.

Dean rose from his seat at the rough card table that served as a dining table and got himself a glass of water. The tap water went down his throat roughly, and didn't seem to help how crappy he was feeling. He longed for another pill since a migraine was beginning now, but he forced himself to ration them out until Dad got back and they could grab some more.

"Wake me up in a few hours," Dean called to Sammy, who was idly flipping though the monotonous programs that were running. He limped over to his and Sam's shared bed, feeling some weight be lifted from him as he let himself drift into the pillows. He hadn't been getting very much sleep since the hunt, and he was bound to get less now that Dad was gone. He didn't know what about Dad going on a hunt worsened his insomnia. Maybe his subconscious was worrying, or maybe he just missed his dad.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until Sam shook him awake. Dean groaned, sleep muffling all of his senses. Glancing at the clock, he noticed that it read six pm. Dang, he'd slept for two hours and still felt as tired as before.

"Dean, the library closes at seven, can we go now?" Sam pleaded, shooting Dean his signature puppy dog eyes.

"Why not?" Dean replied gruffly, grabbing Sam's proffered arm to help him stand and get to his crutches. He meekly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes; he was really too exhausted to head out right now, but he knew he needed to do this for Sammy.

They set their pace slowly to compensate for Dean's injury, and barely made it to the library before closing time. Dean pretended not to notice the stange looks they got from adults as both boys walked out together, one barely able to walk, with no adults with them. He pretended not to hear the concerned murmurings between librarians. What did they know, anyway? Nothing.

The walk back took even longer, as Dean's ankle was starting to throb nearly unbearably. When they returned, Dean made sure he resalted the door before collapsing back onto his bed. It didn't matter that Sam was still watching a program when he should have been going to bed. Dean trusted the kid to get to bed at a responsible time.

The one nice thing about his crutches was the fact that he got to use the elevator to get to class. Yes, it was extremely slow, but he normally had the whole thing to himself. Anything was great if it meant avoiding Kurt as much as he could.

The guy didn't like to leave him alone at lunch, however, when he could flaunt his new punching bag to his cronies. Well, he hadn't exactly punched Dean yet, but Dean always sensed that he was dangerously close to physical abuse.

If Dean was in perfect health, he would beat this guy to a pulp in no time at all. It was how he normally solved his bully problems. But now the fact that his right leg was useless, along with the feeling that a hatchet was ingrained in his skull, were impairing him from doing so. Oh, how this guy deserved a clobbering.

"Did you hear how dumb this kid was in English today?" went Kurt's newest insult. "Teach asked him a question, and he just blurted out the stupidest crap I've ever heard."

Dean's cheeks burned in embarrassment, not bringing himself to point out that the only way Kurt knew that was because he was stuck in ninth-grade English, instead of eleventh-grade where he belonged. If anything, Kurt was the stupid one.

It was true Dean hadn't known the answer. He'd never been that good at reading, finally learning how to in second-grade via the special classes he's been forced into. He was better at math and science, earning his highest marks in those two classes. Sammy was naturally bright, a gift Dean wished he'd gotten. His baby brother had even skipped the fourth-grade, putting him in his first year of middle school now. Dean was so proud of the kid, only the tiniest bit envious that he didn't have those brains. Sammy's never gotten less than an A on his reports, while Dean had never gotten above a B. He was just naturally stupid, he figured.

That'd explain why Dad was never happy with him, but always praised Sammy. Sam deserved all the acclamation he received, so that's why Dean never got any. Still, he longed to be hugged by his dad like he used to be. He wanted his dad to be proud, but no matter how hard he worked he was always a diappointment in John Winchester's eyes.

He figured he was getting ill when he woke up with a killer sore throat and his head pounding as if Lars Ulrich was playing a drum solo in there. He choked down the watery oatmeal that was some of the only food they had left in their posession before packing Sammy's lunch with an apple and a the last leftover slice of cold pizza. When checking their food stores, Dean was appalled to see that they had exactly one tiny, snack-sized bag of Fritos, a half of a can of Spaghetti-O's, and two packets of ramen noodles. Rent was due this Sarurday, three days from now, and there wasn't even enough money for that. Dean groaned, massaging his temples in hope to relieve some of the pressure in his skull. He didn't have to time to get sick, not now.

He made a decision to cut school that day in order to rest up. He made sure Sammy got on the bus, then started hobbling to the conveniance store on the corner. He left his crutches at home, figuring that they were too bulky and it wasn't that far of a walk. He was wearing an extra baggy jacket that John had gotten him by accident when he'd misjudged Dean's size, but it proved to be useful. He scoured the the store for cheap food items that he could actually buy with what little money he had, along with stuffing some of the other necessities inside his jacket. More medicine, for one.

The clerk looked at him curiously when he bought three marked down cans of some Chef Boyardee dinner, but didn't say anything as he paid with crumpled bills. He limped heavily out the door and back to the motel, glad that he had scored some more pain meds along with a small loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter with the five finger discount. It wasn't much, but hopefully it would suffice until Dad returned. Dean's stomach growled almost painfully, but he only dry-swallowed three Advil and made himself fall back to sleep.

If anything, his nap only made him feel worse. His joints were achey, his migraine had seemingly doubled in intensity, and chills wracked his body. His ankle was now the least of his worries. Dean was afraid that if he looked in the mirror he'd see the stark pallor of his face and fever-flushed cheeks. He was sick now, there was no denying it. All he wanted at this point was for his father to return home and do all he could do to make Dean feel better.

But Dean had to take care of Sammy. He could push through this petty cold, it's not like he was that sick. Checking the time, Dean saw that he had about an hour before Sam got back. Sighing in defeat, Dean grabbed the old rotary phone that this place somehow still implemented with a shakey hand and started dialing his father's cell number. He listened to it ring for a while, before he reached voicemail. "This is John Winchester, leave your problem at the tone and I'll get back to you..."

"Dad..." Dean's voice sounded even worse than he thought it did. He winced as he swallowed, hating the scratchy feeling. "Uh, it's Dean. We're seriously low on cash and food, and I think Sammy might be picking up a bug... I don't really know what to do, so if you could just call us back, please."

He hung up the phone, cradling his head in his hands. He hated surrendering, but there was only so much he could do. He wanted his dad home so he could take care of them like a father was supposed to do. Dean shouldn't have to steal so they had enough food to eat, or be trying to scrounge up the money to pay rent at their two-star motel with its funky stains and smells. He'd thought that saying Sammy was the one sick would make his dad haul butt back here but it was no use. His dad would never leave a hunt at such short notice. He was so stupid for thinking that he might.

Dean curled up on the bed again, tears spilling out of his eyes. That's all he was. Stupid.

Sam was home. Dean understood that through his fevered haze. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd gotten back, but he knew that it was probably near dinner time and Sammy was most likely hungry.

There was a cool presence on Dean's forehead. He sighed in relief. It felt so good. His skin was surely bubbling due to the scorching heat radiating from him. He might have moaned as he shifted in his sweaty sheets. He was all gross and sticky, but he didn't want to move. He just wanted to sleep forever.

"Dean, are you awake?" Unfortunately, his plans were foiled as Sammy's voice, wonderfully soft, broke through the comfortable silence.

"Gnnnh," was the sound that escaped from Dean's mouth. His head had chosen this moment to resume its rhythmic pounding, causing Dean to bury himself deeper into the comforters.

"Uh, okay." Was it just Dean's way too warm brain, or did Sam sound really worried? "Dean, do I need to call 9-1-1? Cause you're really scaring me."

Great, now he was scaring his baby brother. How much could he mess up in a week? Too much, it seemed,

"'M fine," Dean choked out, cringing when his throat exploded in pain. "Sammy, I'm 'kay."

Dean cracked open an eye, grateful to see that the lights were off and the blinds were drawn shut. Sam was looking at him, face drawn up sorrow at seeing his brother so ill. "Dean, you're not okay. At least let me try to call Dad."

"Hmm." Dean shifted, trying to get a better view of his brother. "Already done."

"And?"

Dean's eyes slipped closed again. "Voicemail."

He heard Sam sigh in exasperation, before the ten year-old offered, "Should I call Pastor Jim? Dad says to call him when he's late getting home, so why not now?"

"Too far 'way," Dean slurred. They were in New Hampshire (or was it Maine? Dean's muddled brain couldn't recall all the details correctly), and Jim was all the way in Blue Earth, Minnesota. That was at least a day's drive, and the Pastor surely had better things to do than pick up the Winchester boys when their daddy's neglected them.

"Dean..." Sammy's voice trailed off, as he was unsure of what argument to pursue. Dean drifted off again when no more words were uttered. He wasn't exactly asleep, but in a peaceful state betwen awareness and sleep. His headache was going to murder him, he knew, but at least it dulled with rest.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, but judging by the eerie silence of the motel room, Sammy was sleeping. Dean tried weakly to sit up, slowly shuffling out of bed to find the Advil. His ankle was swollen again and barely supporting his weight, but he made it to the table where all of his store goods laid. He wasn't paying attention to how many pills he popped into his mouth.

Then a scratching noise caught his attention.

He was shivering wildly, showing that his fever wasn't down at all, so he very well may have been hallucinating. Squinting his eyes in concentration as he began the trek back to his bed, Dean realized that he could hear the sound again. It sounded as if a drunk person was trying to insert their key into the keyhole. A small ray of hope fluttered in Dean's chest. Could it be his dad coming back?

But then the noise ceased, and Dean went back to bed.

He woke up what seemed like mere moments later to someone shaking him awake again. Dean shied away from the hands, whimpering softly. He didn't want to be bothered.

The shaking became more persistant, and Dean was forced to peek through his too-heavy lids. He expected Sammy, but instead saw a taller, darker figure. He couldn't make out the face in the pitch black.

"Hey, kiddo," the soft voice murmured. Dean's eyes widened almost comically. It was his dad. Dad had cut the hunt short and come back for them.

"Dad?" he rasped. He needed to make sure it was really him, not just a figment of his imagination.

John chuckled softly. "Yup. Looks like it wasn't Sammy coming down with the bug." He placed his hand on Dean's forehead, measuring his warmth. "You take some meds for that fever?"

"Just Advil." His dad's hand felt so cool upon his face, and he was disappoited when it left his forehead. He turned his whole body towards his dad, wishing in that moment that he would heal all ailments.

Dad grunted. "Doesn't look like that helped much. Anything hurt?"

Dean nodded, reminded suddenly of the rock band in his head and the angry pulsing of his ankle. "Head, foot." He swallowed roughly. "Throat."

"Okay." John was silent for a moment, probably assessing the situation. Dean listened to the comforting, steady breathing of his father. Just having the man around him made him feel a little bit better already. John sat down on the edge of the bed and said, "Come here, Dean."

Dean recognized an order, so he scooched towards his dad's voice. He found himself enveloped in his dad's arms, washed over by the familiar scent of leather and gunpowder. John was murmuring things that Dean couldn't make out, but he didn't care. He let out a sigh of relief as he was allowed to snuggle into his dad's shoulder, safe in his arms. He wanted to stay there for forever.

John shifted down in the bed, and so did Dean. Before he knew it, he found himself completely laying down, still in his dad's arms. And he fell asleep feeling safe for the first time in ten years. His dad could protect him and take care of thngs, even when Dean couldn't.

Before he completely drifted off, Dean muttered, "'M sorry." His dad was probably extremely frustrated that he had to leave the hunt to get his son, his fourteen year-old son who should be able to take care of things.

But instead of harsh criticism as was expected, John replied, "It's okay, son. It wasn't your fault."

Dean smiled at his father's words, before cuddling closer and falling asleep.

There was my fic that took me just less than a day to write! I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors, I typed up this whole thing on an iPad..

Please leave a review! I love to hear you comments, questions, concerns, criticism, hates, flames, and death threats!