Author Notes: Sometimes, a lazy afternoon off from work meets just the right mix of alcohol to get the juices flowing. And on those days, you manage to do something with the pointless short story you began several months before with no other intent than to distract from the story you SHOULD be working on. So…thanks?

This is just a moment in time, something post-hunt and non-specific, but later-ish in the series. S7 or 8.

"You ready?"

"Mm hmm."

"On three."

"Whatever you say, jackass."

Sam tightens his grip, palm sweaty. "One." And then a quick, practiced jerk upwards.

The CRUNCH of the ball joint rejoining its socket counterpart flips Sam's stomach as he stares pointedly over Dean's head, at a section of the gaudy maroon raised felt pattern adorning the shiny chartreuse wallpaper of the motel room. They've slept in some questionable dives, but this place is really something. A nauseating mix of outdated taste, exposed wiring, and rotting crown molding. He's seen cleaner truck stop bathrooms, they've squatted in nicer abandoned houses. The muddy boot prints they've tracked across the carpet and their sweat-stained, blood-spotted clothing thrown all over certainly isn't doing any favors for the dingy motif.

"Ah." Dean tries to wrench away but Sam grips his upper arm, refocuses and anchors him to the spot for just another moment. His older brother breathes loud and angry through his nose, jaw clenched. He ducks his head, and his voice breaks just enough to notice. "You went on one again, you lying son of a bitch."

"Yeah, I did." Sam says unapologetically. He swallows thickly, patting Dean once gently on his good shoulder before letting him rise. "That was the easiest one yet." He's lost count. "I'm getting pretty good at this."

Dean turns his back on his brother, walks across the room in an unsteady line and at a speed that would suggest a pit of quicksand had materialized between them over the past few minutes. "Get you some scrubs," he growls, slow-moving feet coming to a stop between the unmade twin beds. He slowly, stiffly rotates his limbs one at a time, testing other joints. "And a pair of those…shoes they wear."

"Clogs?"

"Sure."

Sam fights a grin. "That what they wear on Dr. Sexy?"

"Shut up." Dean stops his experimenting when short-term memory fails him and he stupidly tries to shift his left arm, brings it tight to his body like an injured wing. Face screwed up in pain, he stomps his foot twice, hard enough to rattle the frames on the walls.

The smile wiped from his face, Sam roots in the bag on the table for a cold compress. "I thought it was supposed to hurt less once it's back in." He finds the pack and activates the chemicals within, then tosses it across the room, a sympathetic, under-handed throw.

"It does." Dean makes an awkward grab for the ice pack but it brushes past his fingertips and bounces to the carpet next to his muddy boots. "Oh, you son of a bitch," he mutters again. He stoops to retrieve the compress and his knees answer with a quick succession of snaps and cracks typically associated more with a bag of microwave popcorn than such basic movement of the human skeleton.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Was that you?"

Dean raises his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth twitches upward as he lowers his creaky body onto the edge of his bed, pressing the compress to his sore shoulder with a wince. "Yeah. Get a good look at what's in store, Sammy. Dirty thirties, man. You know it's comin', and you still don't expect it to be as bad as everyone says."

Sam would reach next for the aspirin bottle, but that's not where his brother's gaze is directed. Dean jerks his chin at the cooler on the counter behind Sam. "What are you waiting for? Beer me, bro."

Sam nods, drags free a pair of bottles from the ice. He pops the tops, tosses the caps aside and brings a beer to his brother. Dean nods his thanks and Sam retreats only a step before he stops, picking at the label of his own bottle.

Dean frowns. "S'there something I can do for you, Sammy?"

"Did you, though?"

Never taking his squinted eyes from Sam's face, Dean tilts his head back and takes a long pull from his bottle, pain and exhaustion tugging at his features like an anxious toddler. He's done, ready to crash, and can barely keep up the charade long enough to entertain Sam's nonspecific query with a tired, half-hearted, "Did I what?"

Maybe it's the roaches or the black mold or the general décor of the room that's making him so morbid. Maybe it's what felt like another too-close call. "Did you think your thirties were coming? You really ever think you were gonna live this long?" He didn't, Sam answers himself immediately. The electrocution, the crash, the Hellhounds, a half-dozen other times between. A half-dozen more to come. Not really.

Dean scrutinizes Sam a moment. Every now and then a look falls across his face, passing like a storm cloud, when he debates whether to lie to Sam, or hurt him. As though those are his only two options. He makes his decision, shrugs, and draws in another mouthful of cold beer before simply stating, "Nope." He swallows, sets his beer aside. "Was just tryin' to be funny, Sammy."

Sam nods, moves back to the other side of the room. Hell, he didn't technically make it to thirty, either, if they're going to nitpick. He leans against the wobbly table and studies his slumped brother, had a birds-eye view of the hit he took, Dean luring the creature out into the open so Sam could line up a clear shot from the rafters, and while his shoulder absorbed the brunt of the slam into the concrete floor, it didn't take all of it. Sam frowns, tosses his brother a thick square of gauze from the bag. "Here, grandpa. Clean yourself up."

Dean sniffs, wipes the drip of blood from under his nose that doesn't seem to have even grazed the edge of bothering him. He studies the smear left on his fingers, clearly desperate to refocus this conversation. He transfers the blood to the gauze, dabs under his nose. "Remind me again why I had to be the monster bait."

"Because you're an over-protective control freak."

"Oh, yeah, that's right."

A distant wail of muted sirens reminds them of how quiet it is, how isolated they are in the middle of an otherwise bustling city. A subway rockets past and all of the lights in the room flicker.

Sam rolls his eyes as he taps four pills into his palm, recaps the bottle and lobs it to Dean. "You know, we should buy stock in this stuff."

Dean grunts an agreement, pulls the ice pack away from his shoulder long enough to upend the pill bottle into his own hand and wash a few down with a mouthful of beer. He wiggles backward until he can rest the back of his head against the headboard, dragging his filthy boots onto the covers.

Muscles locking up, Sam pushes off of the table and limps back across the room, collapses tiredly onto his own bed. He wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant mildew-y smell wafting up from the sheets.

Dean frowns. "What's up, Sir-Limps-A-Lot? S'it gonna rain tomorrow?"

Sam looks up at him. "What?"

Dean gestures at his brother with his ice pack. "What's with the gimp? Thing didn't even touch you."

Sam rolls onto his back and draws his leg up, laces his fingers around his knee and pulls it in with a grimace. "Dunno. Stiffens up every now and then."

"Get used to it, bro." Dean grins and salutes his brother with his half-shot beer, resigned to mine some humor from another decidedly not-funny moment. "Like I said, it's all downhill after thirty."

Sam just smirks, because it's his turn to forget.

End