Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, but I sure wish I did!

Author's Note: This story takes place somewhere in early Season 2. Rated T for mild language.

If there's one thing you learn from being slammed around by demons, humans, and everything in between, it's that it still hurts no matter how resilient your body becomes.

Dean and Sam know this better than anyone. They could ace a class in pain - hell, they could teach one if they ever got a day off anymore. They both learned early on that pain is something you deal with on your own; if it isn't life-threatening, keep it to yourself.

As a kid, Sam resented his father and brother's attitude toward pain. Bee sting in the face while hunting down a wendigo? "Suck it up, kid. At least you're not dead." Sprained wrist from being tossed by a ghost? "You'll be fine, Sammy." And the worst part was that any injury Sam got was usually peanuts compared to Dean.

Dean, who would throw himself between his little brother and danger any chance he got. It was both infuriating and endearing.

But mostly, especially these days, it just pissed Sam off.

On this particular day, the brothers Winchester were driving from Montana to New Mexico, glad to leave a particularly nasty couple of ghosts behind. Both of the boys had been tossed around like rag dolls before they had been able to gank the spirits, so that made the long drive even less fun than usual. Sam shifted every few minutes, never quite finding a position that didn't aggravate his aching body in some way. And every time he glanced at Dean through the corner of his eye, he was doing the same.

Sam was pretty sure his big brother had a cracked rib, based on the way he winced any time he took a deep breath. And there was that thing a couple states back on a country road, where a kid jumped out in front of the Impala and Dean had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting him. Sam knew without a doubt his brother's growl of "Son of a bitch!" was more out of pain than surprise.

Cracked rib, for sure. And once again, because of Sam. Dean had taken the ghosts' attention from his little brother after they'd only tossed Sam against a wall twice. While they were distracted by throwing Dean around, Sam had managed to sneak downstairs in the old mansion and burn the two sets of bones buried in the basement.

Angry spirits: immediately consumed by flames.

Case: closed.

And injuries sustained during the job: staunchly ignored.

Business as usual for the Winchesters.

After a few minutes of pretending to stare out the window at the stars, Sam started to speak, started to suggest a trip to the hospital, or at the very least to a drugstore, but he stopped as soon as he saw his brother's posture.

Clenched teeth. Tight grip on the steering wheel. Shoulders held stiffly, resolutely. That one-of-a-kind piss me off, I dare you expression Dean only wore when he was truly ready to let punches fly.

Sam rolled his eyes, turning back to the window. He was sore enough without adding a black eye to his list of injuries. If Dean wanted to suffer in silence, to act like he was invincible and manly or whatever the hell reason he thought he needed to hide his pain, Sam was going to let him.

"I saw that."

Sam turned around. Dean was eyeing him from the driver's seat, still wearing that tight scowl.

"Saw what?"

"Saw that sissy bitch eye roll you just gave me. You wanna tell me what that was about?"

There was no way this was going to end without a fight now; Dean wasn't going to let this pass, and Sam knew it. He sighed, and then decided to just go for it.

"Fine. You wanna know? I know you've got a cracked rib, and I know it's been really bothering you since that kid in Wyoming, but you won't say anything or take anything or even just acknowledge you're in pain because you think you've gotta 'stay strong for little Sammy' or because you know it's my fault you're hurt and you don't want me to know how bad it is."

Dean's scowl deepened and he growled, "Back off, Sammy, it's not that bad," which told Sam that he had it absolutely right.

"I think we've been around each other long enough to see through that kind of crap."

"I gave you a chance to ice those spooks. You want me to apologize for that?"

"No, Dean, I just want you to stop trying to be Dad for one second and just be my brother!"

It was out before Sam could stop it. He hadn't meant to bring up their father, and he could see by the way Dean's expression immediately closed that he had said the wrong thing.

"Man, I didn't-"

"Just shut up."

"Dean, I-"

"I said, shut up. Just let me drive in peace."

Even though he knew he was in the danger zone, Sam tried again. Better for Dean to explode now than to stew for the next five hours.

"Dean, listen-"

As he expected, his big brother veered to the side of the road, slammed on the brakes, swearing loudly as the seat belt dug into his ribs, and jumped out of the car, fists clenched. Pushed from flight mode straight into fight mode. At least they were getting somewhere.

Sam leaped out of the passenger's seat and stared at his brother across the top of the Impala.

Dean's face was livid. "No, you listen to me, Sam. You want to know how bad it is? Fine. It's not one cracked rib, it's at least two and a few more bruised, served with one mother of a headache and a side of back pain. Is that what you wanted to hear? You think it's gonna go away now that I told you about it?" He threw up his hands and shrugged in one exaggerated motion. "So where's your magic cure-all, Sammy? Tell me, you got something to fix our problems? You got someone else who's gonna take care of you?"

Sam stood on the passenger's side, leaning on the car door, unable to look at his brother. So that was it. It wasn't about the injuries, not really. It was about their dad. But then, when wasn't it?

"Dean, I..." he began, then trailed off. He didn't really know what to say.

"That's what I thought."

There was a lot less anger in Dean's tone now, and a lot more of what Sam registered as weariness. Pain.

Sam looked up to see his brother leaning heavily against the Impala. He was clearly exhausted, and Sam felt a sharp pang of emotion in his chest - which, he couldn't quite say. Silently, he moved to the front of the car and sat on the hood, gazing upward at the night sky. It was a cloudless night, and they were in a pretty remote area on a rural state road, so the stars were bright and clear. He glanced at the hood and then at his brother, then back at the sky. He didn't bother turning when he heard the crackle of leather and felt the metal dip slightly underneath him, but he did sneak a glance out of the corner of his eye.

Dean sat stiffly at first, but as he turned his face toward the stars, he began to relax, the pain draining slowly out of his expression. Neither of the boys said anything for a long while, but by the time they got back in the car an hour later, they were arguing over whether they should stop for the night or keep driving and get there by morning.

Sam, of course, was trying to convince Dean that they both needed rest, but his big brother was having none of it. Finally, exasperated after several back-and-forth arguments that had gone nowhere, Dean shot back, "Okay, I'll make a deal with you: how about I'll stop trying to be Dad if you stop being a girl about everything. Go to sleep and let a man have some time alone with his baby and his tunes, would ya?"

And in that moment, Sam knew he'd been forgiven. He also knew that there was no way he was going to win this argument, so he rolled his eyes again and settled down in his seat for the long trip. He hid a grimace as his body protested the movement, but it turned into a smile as Dean turned the radio on to a classic rock station and began to hum softly, very much out of tune.

Yep. Business as usual.