My first Supernatural story! I'm so excited... If my arm was not stuck in a cast and i had to type this all one handed...
Enjoy!
John Winchester was having a rotten day.
Dean had been allowed to go to the local skate rink for a birthday party. How the kid already had close friends at this place, John didn't know. While he was worried about all the supernatural complications that could happen, his conscience was temporarily eased when no party-goer had flinched when he'd whispered, "Christo," as he'd dropped his son off. The mother of Dean's friend (Timmy? Tommy? Billy Joe? John could hardly care) had exchanged phone numbers with him, just in case of emergency. So now, John was at the motel room alone with Sammy. The five-year old had been content with Saturday morning cartoons for about ten minutes, before he'd started bugging John, asking for Dean and, oddly enough, Lucky Charms.
"Dean's at a birthday party," went the broken record for the millionth time, "and you already had some this morning. Save them for tomorrow's breakfast."
That answer would please Sammy for about five minutes. Finally, John had snapped and threatened to throw the whole box of the blasted cereal in the trash if Sam didn't just shut up and let John read his books. He was researching a possible hunt in Omaha, trying to figure out just what kind of creature clawed out a human's heart before most skilfully liquefying their brains. So far, he'd come upon nothing in the lore. Now, reading some books Bobby Singer had lent him, he had to concentrate lest he miss something. And that was extremely difficult with a hyperactive kid screaming in your ear.
Oh, but it gets worse. Shortly after John had given in and let Sammy have some Lucky Charms for lunch (that's gotta be unhealthy, but anything to make the boy just be quiet), John's phone started buzzing. With a sense of dread, he recognized it as Timmy/Tommy/Billy Joe's mother. John rubbed his temples to relieve the migraine that was slowly growing and answered gruffly, "Hello?"
"Uh, Mr. Winchester?" came the woman's squeaky little voice.
"Speaking."
"Yes, this is Dylan's mom." Dylan, that's what it was. "There's, umm, there's been a little incident at the skating rink. I'll need you to come pick Dean up."
John sighed in anguish. That boy ... what could he have done this time? "What's wrong? I'm kinda busy at the moment."
"Well, uh, he fell pretty hard while skating, and his wrist is pretty swollen. I offered to call an ambulance, but he said his dad would fix it."
There was the headache again. If t was swelling already, that most likely indicated a break. "I'll be right there," John grumbled before hanging up.
He made Sam put on his jacket and boots (normally a difficult task, but he was persuaded at the idea of retrieving Dean), and the zoomed away in the Impala, John all the while hoping he remembered where the skating rink was. Finally, after minimal wrong turns, he came upon the place. After strict orders for Sam to stay in the car, he walked inside.
The smell was awful. Cardboard pizza mixed with foot odor and the sticky sweat of children. This was a place where dreams died, John knew.
"Mr. Winchester! Over here!"
John turned his head to see Dylan's mother, a sweet, old, obtuse woman and her cluster of party kids. Dean was sitting down in the middle of them all, clearly not wanting all this attention thrust on him. John didn't fail to notice how Dean had already put his sneakers back on (or had someone put them on for him) or how he was clutching his left arm dearly to his chest. John walked over to the crowd and said the woman, "Thanks for calling me. It was nice of you to invite Dean, but we should probably get going now."
Dean rose to meet his father, his fat wrist not moving from it's spot. Together, they walked out to the car where they were immediately met with a "Dean! You're back!"
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean's voice was rough, and he tried to smile, but all that came out was a pained grimace. "Ahh..."
John looked at Dean's wrist, precariously tucked in a small fist to relieve some pain. "Does it really hurt?"
Dean swallowed convulsively. "Yeah, I really wanna take my knife and saw it off right now."
"You break it?" The car pulled out of the lot.
"I think so," he replied breathlessly, "but you can fix it, right?"
John smirked at his oldest's worried face. "Nope, kiddo. You're going to the doctor."
Dean groaned, but whether it was from the pain or the dread of having to see a doctor, John couldn't tell.
It was indeed a break, as the x-ray confirmed. The distal radius (or, wrist bone, as John found out) was fractured. Dean was put in a wrist cast for six weeks, and one day in he was already in agony. His wrist was throbbing against the annoying plaster, he said, and moving his fingers in what little way they could shot pain up his arm. That's how Dean had gotten in a sour mood on the drive home from the hospital. He was tired, John could tell, and also embarrassed that he'd gotten injured in suck a petty way. John could tell from the way that he rubbed his eyes that he wanted to fall asleep, but his ailment was preventing him from doing so.
"You want me to get you some Tylenol, Dean?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to wake a sleeping Sam in the backseat.
Dean shook his head. "'M fine," he murmured, obviously not fine. He shifted a little in his seat so that his head rested against the window. "My arm hurts," he finally admitted in a defeated voice.
"You fell on it, right?"
Dean let out a pained chuckle. "More like pushed. Five times. Remind me to never go to a birthday party again. Those kids were jerks."
John frowned. "They pushed you?"
"Yeah." Dean's eyes closed for a moment. "I was only invited out of sympathy, you know. The mom works in our class and knew I didn't have any friends, so she convinced her son to invite me. Are we moving soon? I don't wanna go back to this school looking like this."
"What can I tell ya, Dean? Kids are mean," John grunted. "We'll be moving soon, don't worry."
"Mmhmm..." Dean was half asleep now, casted arm laying forgotten in his lap.
John smiled warmly. He turned the radio on and was pleased when the thrasy tune of Disposable Heroes blasted softly in the car. It was a newer song by the band, and John couldn't help but tap his fingers to the tune. Suddenly, Dean sat straight up. "I got it!" he whispered brightly.
They didn't move until a week after that, but Dean didn't care anymore. His cast was no longer boring white, but instead was adorned with the logos of all his favorite bands. Metallica ran proudly up his arm, flanked by Megadeth, Motörhead, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, KISS, AC/DC, and, of course, a blimp in which was written Led Zeppelin. Dean wore his cast proudly, making sure everyone saw his masterpieces. Sammy had been so in awe of Dean's artwork that he had taken to scribbling all over his arms as well, which became a serious stress factor in John's life. When he woke up with BUTT scrawled across his arm one morning, all magic markers mysteriously disappeared from the motel room.
This is just how I broke my wrist. I just felt like putting Dean through my pain!
Please take a moment to leave a review!