Sam paused just outside yet another generic motel door and drew in a deep breath. He'd been rehearsing the speech throughout his entire food-finding mission and he could do this.
Because Dean's leg was broken. That wasn't exactly something that Sam could let his brother dismiss with the usual cavalier, macho, I'll-just-walk-it-off attitude for which he was so known.
Because Dean's leg was broken. He couldn't walk.
The fracture wasn't terribly severe but it was unstable and the doctor who put the plaster on had made it a point to repeat over and over that Dean should bear as little weight as possible for the first week or so while the swelling went down and the bones began to knit. Of course, Dean refused to use his wheelchair. No, he'd stubbornly limped the twenty feet from car to room, shouting abuses at Sam for hovering and coddling like nervous a bitch, instructing the taller man to go out and do something useful if he couldn't get off Dean's back.
Sam went out angry and frustrated. He was a little too curt with the waitress at the cash register of the local diner and was fairly sure the burgers he carried had received generous helpings of several different bodily fluids from the harassed woman.
Great.
But, damnit, Dean's leg was broken. They'd nearly died three times on the way from the hospital to the motel because the infuriating bastard refused to let his brother drive, insisting on trying to work the brake and gas with his left foot and shouting at other cars to get out of the friggin' way.
Sam could not take hours of Dean driving broken-legged cross country.
He would not allow his brother to endanger his health just because he was incapable of taking a week to relax and heal properly.
Drawing himself up to look as big and authoritative as possible--less the baby brother and more the Alpha male--Sam readied his multitude of well-rehearsed arguments and threats and stormed into the dim room.
"Dean," The brunette bellowed, slamming the door with an overly-forceful bang to illustrate just how pissed off he was and that the conversation was one which would put the fractured hunter quite firmly in line. Unfortunately, the next words out of Sam's mouth were the rather lames ones, "Your leg is broken."
"I know," Dean replied, propped up against his bed's headboard with his casted leg supported by all the pillows off of Sam's. His eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly on the large but ancient television set on top of a dresser on the other side of the room; the remote rested limply in his hand.
A bit of steam gone from his righteous indignation at having been agreed with so easily, Sam felt flustered and allowed his gaze to drift to the bright screen on which his brother was so intensely focused...
Just in time to see the fifteen-foot Great White rocket its entire immense body out of the choppy South African waters and straight up into the air.
"Whoa."
The reaction was reflexive. Despite everything else going on, that was really friggin' cool.
"Dude," Dean replied, a ghost of a smile coming across his completely hypnotized face, "I know."
Sam slowly lowered himself onto the foot of the nearest bed and stared, utterly transfixed, as more footage of flying, thrashing, chomping behemoths played across the screen.
He couldn't quite describe why, but he'd always been a sucker for shark shows.
After two minutes, he'd completely forgotten his purpose. The power and carnage was just... consuming.
"Shark Week," He heard Dean state happily. Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw unrestrained glee on his brother's face. He didn't look long though; he didn't want to miss a single moment of this divine cocktail of science and violence.
"Shark Week," He found himself repeating, mesmerized. He handed Dean the grease-soaked, nearly-transparent brown paper bag of burgers and only vaguely listened as the sounds of chewing mingled with the heavily-accented voices of the scientists on TV.
At the commercial, Sam blinked, shook his head, tried to free himself from the spell that had been woven by the fluid grace and sheer savagery and onslaught of facts to which he'd been witness.
His geeky and masculine sides were at one.
"You know..." Dean began.
Sam turned and saw a deceivingly angelic and heart-wrenchingly pained smirk on his brother's face.
"My leg is broken," Dean went on, his voice plaintive, "Maybe we should stick around here for awhile, let it rest up." His expression did not change but Sam saw his hand twitch imperceptible around the remote. "Doctor's orders and all."
Not knowing whether to laugh hysterically or throttle his big brother, Sam settled for trying not to grin too broadly and stating, "Sure, Dean. I just want you to get better."
"Aw, Sammy," The blonde replied, smiling roguishly before shoving half a cheeseburger into his gaping craw. Around the sloppy mouthful, Dean muttered something sounding suspiciously like a sarcastic, 'I love you, too, bitch.'
Sam couldn't be sure. It seemed rather fitting, as well as typical. He settled for turning back towards the glowing television, making himself comfortable on the foot of Dean's bed as they waited for more of the weeklong shark show marathon.
Dean's swallow was audible. He waited a beat and then asked, "Why does my burger taste like snot?"
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Haha, just some silliness that came to me while I was myself trapped in a hotel room for the entirety of Shark Week. I've always been a sucker for shark shows. Hope you guys enjoyed it and, remember, reviewing often lessens your chance of being the victim of a shark attack. Educate and protect, that's my motto...
Besides, this is my first Supernatural posting and you cool kids might be able to inspire me to post some more ;D