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Gibberings: Sooo it's friday not Thursday but at least I'm in the right week this time -facepalm- Maybe I will get this right...by the time SPN comes back around and I stop. Oh great. Anyone else super excited for next season? Also hey guess what...this story was originally done for a site called deandamage(dot)com if you haven't checked it out, Go! Go right now. My friend JessicaRae came up with it as a sort of Dean injuring companion for Limp-Sam. So go enjoy! I'm on there as eightiswild if you wanna look me up...there are stories posted there that aren't here! -gasps- Anyway, on with the show!

For Isis, I hope you enjoyed it girl.

Spoilers: None

Time Set: Season 1

It was one of the most comical jobs they had ever run across. Not only was it a haunted ship, but a run down merchant ship haunted by the ghost of the cook! Sam had even found it amusing enough to drag out Treasure Island references now and then. Dean hadn't even been that concerned when they discovered "Long John" was buried at sea. He was pretty confident they would find another way to get rid of the one-eyed nuisance and maybe swing by Arnold's Seafood Shack for dinner after.

Funny how he wasn't laughing now.

The up and down movements as the boat was rocked back and forth by the waves was added with the fact that his vision was spinning made for a truly nauseating effect. It didn't help matters that the room smelled entirely of fish.

He laid his head back against the rotten wood and tried to make his world come into focus. He could hear Sam's voice somewhere below him—strong, loud, commanding—immediately followed by an unearthly howl.

They were on a hunt, Dean realized belatedly. Even in its muffled state, his mind pounded with the words that had become like the mantra of his life. Find Sam. Save Sam. He pulled forward and felt a hot pain that went beyond what people would describe red or white. He didn't even cry out, his breath stolen by the less than welcome sensation.

He panted mindlessly for several moments, before the sound of Sam's voice once again broke through.

"Dean…Dean!" Sam gasped breathlessly, gripping onto his brother's bicep. Dean blinked as his brother's face came in and out of focus. The younger hunter was pale, holding his shoulder awkwardly and had a large gash barely visible below his bangs.

"You're hurt," Dean slurred, reaching for his brother's face and only managing to swat at the air. Sam laughed. Not the carefree kind that made him seem like a little kid again, but one of those stressed to the point of fraying at the ends laughs.

There was no humor in it.

"Dean…don't you remember what happened?" that one was pure worry. Dean blinked. He remembered coming on to the boat with Sam. He remembered making fun of Casper the psycho chef. He remembered hitting the wall hard as pain shot through his leg. Dean forced his eyes downward and felt a new wave of dizziness pass over him.

From his appendage protruded a long metal shaft. Crimson slowly seeped through the denim around the offending object.

Well, at least that explained the dizziness.

"You're gonna be ok, Dean," Sam promised repeating the words Dean had said to him many times before. "I'm gonna get you out." Dean wanted to make a joke, to say he was alright, to help in some way; but his eyes refused to stay open. He succumbed to the darkness, trusting himself fully to his brother.

Because there was no one he trusted more.

_-_-_

One of the facts of life as a hunter was hospitals. They were to be avoided when possible but every hunter ended up with a medical history with more addictions than the bill of rights.

Hospitals were a necessary evil.

So Dean was more annoyed than surprised when he woke to a world of white. Not pleasant white, but sterile and cold. The one good thing about hospitals was they gave out the good drugs. He felt like his head was dethatched from his body, which considering the condition he remembered being in, was probably a good thing.

"Sam," he rasped out when his voice finally remembered how to work. A hand was instantly on his shoulder, squeezing it hard enough to leave marks. Dean would have complained if the grip hadn't confirmed what he'd already guessed, this had been one heck of a close call.

"I'm here," Sam assured him, unshaved face coming into his line of sight.

"How long have I been out?" the older hunter asked.

"Three days, you lost a lot of blood, Dean," Sam replied, his voice sounded tired from newly released anxiety.

"I'm ok Sam," he encouraged, giving what he hoped looked like a reassuring smile—not just a doped to the gills grin. "What happened?" Sam's face clouded.

"You don't remember…"

"I mean after the whole shish ka bob part," Dean replied, watching the younger cringe at his choice of words. "Why didn't he wield a spoon or something. I thought he was a cook."

"He was, but he always wanted to be a whaler," Sam explained, "I guess that's why he came back."

"That's some seriously whacked out unfinished business, dude."

"Tell me about it."

"How'd you get rid of him?"

"I summonded the spirit of his wife."

"And the power of love saved the day?" Dean smirked.

"Actually," Sam rubbed his the back of his head absently, "she nagged him back into afterlife."

"Yikes."

"Yeah."

Dean laid back against the pillow, letting his eyes roam up to the white ceiling.

"Hey Sam, remember the time when in third grade when you had to pin some bugs to a board for a project?"

"Yeah." Dean turned to face the confused look his brother was giving him.

"I think I know how the bugs felt."