IT'S A DOG'S LIFE
It's a grumpy time in the bunker.
Dean's grumpy because he's broken his ankle, and it hurts. Sam's grumpy because he put his back out after carrying his great pie-stuffed lump of a brother back to the Impala, and it hurts.
Will the adorable little stray puppy Sam found shivering and crying beside the bunker help to lift the mood? Castiel thinks not.
The brothers think he should just shut his angelic pie hole!
Chapter 1
xxxxx
It had been a fairly routine hunt for the most part. A ghoul hiding out in some shitty derelict warehouse, snacking on the occasional hobo, a couple of stupid thrill-seeking kids, and one unfortunate real-estate agent.
Dean had taken great delight in taking his machete and lopping the creepy bastard's head clean off. Of course, the part when he then slipped over in its blood, and tumbled ass over head down a flight of stairs hadn't been quite so enjoyable.
On hearing Dean's undeniably lively, expletive-laden descent, Sam had bolted down the stairs after him to find his brother lying in a groaning, tangled heap at the bottom of the staircase and, fearing the worst, began a manual assessment of Dean's injuries.
"Dean, what the hell happened?"
"What d'ya think happened, Sherlock?" Dean grumbled ungraciously, swatting Sam's wandering hands away. "I slipped and took a swan dive down the freakin' stairs … and here I am," he added with flourish.
"Can you move?" Sam asked, visibly scanning Dean's body for anything vaguely misshapen, or any blood – at least blood that couldn't be attributed to the ghoul.
"Yeah," Dean sighed breathlessly, gradually raising himself toward a sitting position; "I can mo-AAAUUGH!" Dean pulled in a deep breath. "Sam, I can't move!"
"What is it?" Sam gasped, panic rising within him.
"M'ankle," Dean replied breathlessly; "think I've busted my ankle."
Damnit.
Sam scanned the warehouse for something to support Dean, and the only thing he found was himself.
He sighed.
"Dean, we need to get you up," Sam announced urgently; "this floor's cold and damp – and filthy."
Dean nodded a tacit agreement and shuffled around clumsily until he was in a semi-sitting position, balanced on his left asscheek. Once he had steadied himself, he offered his right hand to Sam who managed, with a great deal of mutual grunting, groaning and cursing, to haul Dean into a one-legged standing position.
Sam glanced across at Dean, standing and swaying precariously, despite leaning heavily on him, with his right leg dangling in the air. He was relieved to see that Dean's foot was still attached, and wasn't folded in half, pointing the wrong way or in any other way deformed, so his hope was that if the ankle was broken, it was a clean and simple break.
"Okay dude, if you lean on me, d'ya think we can make it out to the Impala?" Sam coaxed, "she's just behind those trees – about a quarter mile away."
Dean swallowed harshly and nodded. "Yep," he replied unconvincingly.
That was until the toe of his right boot touched the ground.
"GAH! Nope … Sam, no – I can't bear any weight on it."
Damnit – again!
Still holding his listing brother upright, Sam glanced around the warehouse' ramshackle interior looking for something they could utilise as a crutch.
Of course, their lives could never be that easy. Once again, the only thing he found was himself.
Sam wilted slightly. "It looks like I'll have to carry you out."
"What? NO!" Dean bristled; "you are not carrying me – anywhere. I freakin' forbid it."
Sam rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation; "just stop with the macho insecurity Hopalong; how else are you going to make it back to the Impala then?"
"I'll manage," Dean stated defiantly.
xxxxx
Gritting his teeth, and clinging to Sam's shoulder with all his might, Dean hopped forward. Once, then twice. Then a third time
Damnit to hell, this hopping was hard work. He'd only travelled about two yards, and his good leg was already aching.
And his ankle – well, when those doctors tell you to say how much something hurts between a scale of one and ten? This was about a fourteen.
He hopped forward again, feeling a sheen of sweat begin to break out across his forehead, trying to ignore the irritated glare Sam was shooting him.
He hopped again, and unbalanced, swaying backwards and basically undoing the minimal amount of progress he'd already made.
It was at that point Sam decided that enough was enough. "This is pathetic," he snapped, and without warning, Dean felt himself being hoisted up into Sam's arms.
He squawked indignantly, protesting vocally and colourfully, but heck, if the relief of being carried didn't just feel totally awesome.
He could feel the throb of his ankle subsiding. He felt safe and warm, comforted by the knowledge that his brother's strong arms were carrying him back to his girl – to Baby.
Of course, wild horses would never drag that confession out of him - ever, but all in all this relief was totally worth looking and feeling a complete pussy for.
On pain of death – or broken ankles, Sam would never know.
xxxxx
The Impala was in sight when it happened. When Sam stumbled, almost dropping Dean, and let out a pained yelp.
"What?" Dean looked up into Sam's pain-gripped face with panic – "WHAT?"
"M'back," Sam gritted out through clenched teeth; "something's given out."
"You need to put me down," snapped Dean.
"You need to lay off the goddamn pies," Sam replied breathlessly, grimacing as the tightened his grip on his squirming brother and staggered the last few strides towards the waiting Impala.
xxxxx
The following day, safely ensconced back at the bunker, the brothers took stock of their injuries.
Dean was stretched out on the couch. A plastercast – a testament to his unwilling visit to the local ER the previous evening - adorning his right foot, extending halfway up his calf.
With Dean more-or-less immobile, Sam, despite his protesting back, was doing his best to keep the Winchesters' everyday routine – such as it was – ticking over. Hobbling around the bunker hunched over like a man twice his age, he wasn't helped by Dean behaving like the most grouchy, pissed-off human being on the planet. Sam wasn't sure if Dean was grumpy because he was worried about Sam, or because he was embarrassed. Embarrassed about Sam insisting on carrying him, or because Sam had implied that he needed to lose weight, or even because in an act of sweet revenge for his crook back, Sam had informed the ER triage nurse that Dean broke his ankle in ballet class.
But at least now they were home in the bunker and although broken and weary, they were safe. Ultimately, that's all both brothers cared about.
xxxxx
Castiel was away at the moment, on a sojourn somewhere in the subcontinent, seeking out a lost jewel that they needed for a particular incantation that Sam was working on. The fact that it currently resided in the navel of an exotic Himalayan demi-goddess who lived somewhere up a totally inaccessible mountain, and who ate mortals and wore their extraneous body parts as earrings, meant that Castiel was the ideal man – angel – whatever – for the job.
The Winchesters considered calling him back to heal them but decided that as their injuries were more annoying than life-threatening, and allowing for the fact that he'd be back in a few days anyway, they could just live with the current situation for now.
Given that in the past, Dean had died over a hundred times, Sam had been tormented into madness by Lucifer, and they had both been tortured in Hell; a busted ankle and a stuffed back didn't seem too horrific in the grand scheme of things.
xxxxx
tbc
