A/N The other day while browsing around Deviantart I found a picture called Weightless by Madartiste. After asking for permission, I started this story. It should have a fairy tale kind of feel. Every chapter is named after a real fairy tale, though the content of said chapter may not reflect the content of the fairy tale for which it is named. I hope that wasn't too confusing.

Disclaimer- I own nothing.

Chapter 1

Boots and The Troll

"Shoot it!" Dean shouted, boots sliding erratically as he scrambled backwards over the muddy ground.

The thing was close, so close he could smell its fetid breath and see the bits of half-chewed flesh hanging from its razor sharp teeth. Behind it, Sam struggled with the flare gun, his right arm covered in blood and swelling rapidly.

"Sam! Shoot it!" Dean called again, hands slipping on a patch of wet grass.

"I'm trying."

Gasping as he backed roughly into a tree trunk, Dean could only watch as the creature grew closer, peering about wildly with its pale, blind eyes. When drawn out of its cave, the troll relied on its sense of smell to find prey, unless, that is, the prey happened to be sitting in a mud puddle three feet from its jaws.

"Sam!"

Pressing himself hard against the jagged bark of the tree, Dean tried to get up, thinking that maybe if he got to his feet, he could run, but the mud sucked at his shoes, holding his legs in place.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light and the creature howled, skidding in the muck and flinging its ponderous weight against the jagged rock face. Sam stood, white-faced, at the entrance to the cave, flare gun dangling in his left hand. The earth seemed to shake apart and a growl echoed around them. Sam's eyes grew wide as he realized, too late, what was happening. As the stones came crashing down, he dove away, flinging his good arm over his head. Between the flying dirt, the stinking black blood from the troll and the rocks kicking up dust, Dean lost sight of his brother.

The troll's thrashing movements slowed as the life ebbed from its body; thick, dark gore mixing with the rain water. Only when it lay perfectly still, flesh turning from mottled brown to a sickly grey, did Dean dare to struggle to his feet.

"Sammy?" he called, coughing.

Wrenching himself free, he stumbled into the mess, nearly tripping over one monstrous leg. Blinking at the dust in his eyes, Dean realized the thing had turned to stone, just as the legend said. Some of it crumbled when he nudged the limb with his toe.

"Guess you won't be eating any more hikers," he snickered and moved on, eyes searching the rubble for Sam.

"Sammy?"

A soft groan reached him and he hurried forward. They'd been hiking for two days now and Dean was sick of everything. The food was barely edible, his sleeping bag itched and somehow every plant he touched was poison ivy. The quicker he got Sam back on his feet, the quicker they could get out of here and back to civilization.

"Sam? You okay?"

There was no answer, but the air began to clear, revealing the jagged outline of the cave-in. Rubble spilled from the fissure, covering the ground with a waist-high layer of boulders and thick, grey powder. Standing very still, Dean waited, listening for anything that might tell him where his brother was. The last muted rumbles of the crash shook the ground, followed by a few pebbles skittering down the rock face.

Panic rose in his chest. What if Sam was buried under all that mess? He'd never find him. Never be able to dig him out.

"Sammy! You answer me!"

Something moved. Just a slight shift in the air to his left. Peering through the gloom, he could just see Sam's brown hair, thick with filth, blowing in the breeze.

"Shit. Shit. Shit," he muttered, jogging to his brother's side. "Oh … oh, God."

The younger man lay on his back, arms twisted awkwardly at his sides, face bloodied from numerous cuts and scrapes. That was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the pile of rocks covering his legs.

"Sammy! Sam. Wake up!" Dean demanded, shaking him roughly.

"Dean," Sam groaned, opening his eyes a little.

"Hey. Hey. C'mon. Wake up."

"What happened?" he asked, softly.

"You … you're gonna be fine. We'll get you outta here in no time. You just hang on."

"I can't move my legs."

Swallowing hard, Dean lied, "That's nothing. I'll get you straightened out."

"My arm hurts."

Frowning, the older man took Sam's right hand and gently rolled the tattered sleeve up, exposing three small cuts to the forearm. They oozed a little when he pressed on the swollen flesh surrounding them. Infected, he thought. They were infected.

"Poison, I think," Sam muttered, trying to focus.

"Poison?"

"Thing … scratched me. Poison under its claws."

"Fuck." That word seemed to sum up their situation nicely.

"I still can't move my legs."

Teeth chewing hard at his lower lip, Dean sorted through everything he knew about first aide. The cuts and scrapes would be easily dealt with, but that arm … he'd need medicine. Maybe a tourniquet would keep the poison from spreading, like with a snakebite. Quickly, he unbuckled his belt and took it off, wrapping it tightly just above Sam's elbow, pausing only to poke a hole in the leather with his pocket knife. His brother's eyes rolled wildly, but he remained conscious though the procedure.

"What …?"

"Keep the poison from spreading," he explained, slipping off his coat. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

Sam nodded, "I … I think so."

So, his back wasn't broken. That was something. Very carefully, he lifted Sam's shoulders off the ground and wrapped the coat around them, zipping it as much as he could. That would keep him warm during the hours it would take Dean to clear the rocks from his legs and, hopefully, be enough to keep him from going into shock. The man's teeth were already chattering. There wasn't a lot of time.

"Hey." He tapped Sam's cheek with his fingers, "Hey. Stay awake. Sing a song or something."

"What?"

Rolling up his own sleeves, Dean got to his feet, eyeing the rocks, trying to find a good starting point. "Sing a song. Tell me a story. Something. Just keep talking. If you go to sleep… I might not … you might not …"

"Right."

Silence followed.

"I don't hear any singing."

"Sorry. What … what song?"

"Anything … just pick one."

"Okay." Another moment passed and then, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Was a good friend of mine. I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine."

Smiling grimly, Dean went to work, only half listening to his brother's ragged singing.

The rocks were sharp and they cut Dean's hands as he struggled to move them. His gloves were back at camp, a fifteen minute walk, and there wasn't time to get them. Instead, Dean ripped two long strips off the bottom of his white t-shirt and wrapped them around his palms. A few of the stones were too heavy to lift, these he shoved to the side, trying not to notice how each shifting stone made his brother cry out.

"Keep singing," he growled, pausing to take a few deep breaths.

"Dean…"

"Keep singing."

"I'm picking up good vibrations, she's giving me excitations …" Sam's voice was hoarse, but he did as his older brother asked.

Satisfied, Dean went back to work.

Another hour passed and Sam was halfway through his second round of Take Me Out To The Ball Game, when Dean sifted through the last of the debris, finally freeing the other man's legs. Wiping sweat out of his eyes, Dean grabbed Sam under his arms and pulled him out of the wreckage. The injured man blinked back tears and lay very still as Dean inspected his lower extremities.

The right leg was bruised but otherwise, uninjured. The left one, however, was severely swollen and discolored below the knee. Even pulling up the tattered pant leg caused Sam intense pain.

"Fuck," Dean said under his breath.

"What? S'it broken?" Sam slurred, eyes glazed.

"Yeah."

"Splint."

"I don't think I can move you if I splint it."

"I … I walk …"

"You sure?"

"We … try."

Sam's ashen face and constant shaking did not inspire confidence, but Dean wasn't looking forward to carrying his brother the entire way back to camp. They had to try. Carefully, he helped Sam into a sitting position and, hooking his good arm around his shoulders, together, they struggled to their feet. With a soft gasp, Sam fell heavily against Dean, apologizing in increasingly garbled words.

"You know," Dean said, taking most of his brother's weight, "This is a lot like when you were little."

"Huh …" Sam managed as he took an experimental step forward.

"Dad was away and I was taking care of you … You couldn't have been more than ten months old and you kept trying to walk. You could pull yourself up okay and even stand alone, but every time you tried to walk, you'd just fall right back down. Sometimes I caught you and sometimes you hit your head or your nose …"

The broken leg dragged on the ground, unable to bear any weight, and Sam whimpered as it bumped on tree roots and fallen branches.

"So, anyway, I took your hands and showed you how it was done. Do you remember what I used to say?"

"No."

"One step at a time, Sammy. Take it one step at a time."

"Don't … I don't … remember."

"Doesn't matter. You were little. Let's just take this one step at a time, okay?"

"Okay."