Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.
Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, follows, and general encouragement you guys gave Killer Curbs. Hope this satisfies those of you looking for an encore… (and the rest of you as well!)
"Come on man, stop gimping around already and get your freaking ankle looked at!"
Sam's exasperated words serve several purposes. They stop Dean cold, hand planted on the back of the motel room chair he'd been using to brace himself, trying to get some of the weight off of his still painful right ankle. They also remind him that Sam sees way too much, is way too observant, and that they've been living underneath each other's thumbs for way too long; there's no way he's going to be able to get away with continuing to ignore his still troublesome limb. And they elicit a deep growl from the older of the Winchester brothers, an audible display of the disgust he feels towards the past couple of months.
From the initial insult of falling off of the curb (and the ribbing and general mockery that in itself had entailed), to the month-long sentence of crutches, immobilized in a walking boot (sans the actual walking part), through the past couple of weeks, gradually trying to get his strength and mobility back.
He's listened to the doctors and the physical therapists (he has, he swears - at least most of the time); in fact, he really listened to that one PT assistant. All night long.
A smirk crosses his face at the thought that that was a very good night indeed.
But despite the physical therapy sessions, the home exercise regimen, and the caution he's taken to not be a complete dumbass (as Bobby had so eloquently put it before they'd headed back out on the road), his ankle's still being a bum. Still causing him to limp, both because of the pain and the weakness. Still giving out at the most inopportune times. Like last night, for instance, when he'd practically spilled his beer on that girl in the bar. He's pretty sure he'd narrowly missed an ass-kicking from her boyfriend (a guy even bigger than Sam), but thankfully they'd both been convinced by his story when he'd had to physically hold onto the bar in order to keep himself upright, his ankle wanting no part in helping to hold his body weight at that particular moment in time.
And he's kind of scared that one of these days it will actually cause a bigger issue. Doesn't even want to think about what could happen to him or Sam if his ankle decides to give out when in they're in the middle of a hunt.
But he's more afraid of what the doctors will say if he goes back to have it evaluated. The threat of surgery has been hanging over his head ever since that doctor Bobby made him see; since then, it's been reiterated on several occasions, each time causing his gut to clench more tightly as his ankle failed to progress like the doctors and therapists had been hoping.
He's doesn't want to be laid up for another couple of months. Thinks he'll likely go crazy if he has any more forced down time in the near future.
Thinks maybe if he gives it another week or two, his ligaments will suddenly decide to play nicely and get themselves back on track.
He should really know better by now.
()o()o()o()o()
The final straw comes much sooner than Dean had been hoping, during what should have been a relatively routine take down of a skinwalker.
Bobby had asked them to take a look after they'd left his place, said he was getting some intel about questionable activity in the direction they'd been headed. Dean had jumped at the chance to get back in the game. Sam had incredulously asked Bobby if he was crazy.
"Yeah, for putting up with the two of you," had been Bobby's prompt reply.
Sam had reluctantly agreed to look into the details, his interest piqued when it did, in fact, turn out to be a skinwalker causing the issues in the small town about a day's drive from Bobby's place. He'd agreed to let Dean come along with him on the actual hunt, figuring that his brother was just as likely to follow him anyway (he knows when to pick his battles), and feeling fairly confident that he'd be able to outpace Dean by a mile anyway, given his brother's rather turtle-like speed these days.
And while Dean's well aware of his ankle's limitations (he really hasn't been able to run since that fateful meeting with the hot blonde, unless you count the limp-hop he's now perfected), he figures he can at least provide some back up for Sam. Be an extra set of hands and maybe get some target practice in at the same time.
The day's events don't quite live up to what he'd been picturing, however.
He can hear the snapping of twigs and branches up ahead of him, is following them like a trail of breadcrumbs to his younger brother who's easily outpacing him, probably without even breaking a sweat.
Damn his traitorous body.
He's having to pick his way carefully around the rocks and tree roots, the obstacles and uneven terrain just lying in wait to give his ankle even more grief than usual.
When he does finally catch up with Sam, his breath coming in faster puffs than he'd like both from the mental exertion of having to continuously monitor his footing and from the physical exertion that tells him he's been off his game for way too long, the sight that greats him does nothing to calm the heart beat that mirrors his rapid breathing.
Sam's engaged in a wrestling match with the skinwalker, arms shaking as he tries to keep the beast from making him into a rather tasty Sammy Snack, eyes locked on the task at hand.
Dean takes a couple of limping steps closer to his brother, maneuvering himself into a position that gets Sam out of harm's way, slowly raising his gun to take aim at the beast threatening to chow down on his only other living relative.
He continues to sneak up on the epic wrestling match, making miniscule adjustments as he goes, his finger gently tightening on the trigger, the beast's head firmly in his sights.
Unfortunately, his ankle picks the exact moment he completes the motion of squeezing the trigger to act like a bitch, giving out on him and causing his balance to waver just enough that the bullet completely misses its intended target, whizzing past Sam's head instead, before embedding itself rather benignly into the trunk of the tree behind him.
While failing to cause any damage to the skinwalker, it at least causes a diversion, allowing Sam to plunge the silver knife into the beast's chest before taking off its head for good measure.
"Dude! What the hell?" Sam cries over his shoulder, equal parts consternation and exasperation as he puts the finishing touches on his handiwork. "Did you just shoot at me?"
"Shit," Dean says, sinking down onto a rocky outcropping, working to steady his breathing against the hammering in his chest. His eyes are wide, his complexion a rather greenish gray, not because of the pain in his ankle this time, but due to the thought that he did just come dangerously close to putting an unintended hole into his little brother's head.
Sam makes short work of taking care of the rest of the job, tersely telling Dean to stay put when he sees his brother contemplating coming over to help. He can see the worry in his older brother's eyes, can almost see Dean second-guessing his actions as he replays the recent events in his head. Can see the exact moment he understands how much of a liability his ankle may end up being.
And while Sam in no way wants Dean to beat himself up any more than he already does on an almost daily basis, he's actually kind of glad today played out like it did. Because if Dean's miss was because of his bum ankle (which Sam's almost 100% sure it was), his pigheaded big brother might actually get it checked out.
Because while Dean isn't one to take care of himself, he's been trained since the age of four to take of Sam.
()o()o()o()o()
"Hey Bobby, long time no see!" Dean says into his cell phone, the strained tone of his voice making the comment sound way less lighthearted than he'd been aiming for.
He glances over to where Sam's seated in the passenger's seat of the Impala, quickly turning his attention away from the Bitch Face directed his way in order to focus on the still smoldering pile of skinwalker in front of the parked car, his phone-free hand tapping out a rhythmless tattoo against the steering wheel.
"You boys get the job done?" comes the gruff older hunter's no-nonsense return greeting.
Dean nods, swallowing thickly around the lump still lodged in his throat, belatedly remembering that he has to verbally answer Bobby's question. "Yep. Sam took it down. One less thing to go bump in the night."
Bobby's pause hangs in the air for several seconds before he finally asks, "That it? You boys okay? You just calling in to report on the job?"
Dean hazards a glance to his right, sliding his eyes closed in dejection when he sees Sam staring pointedly at him, Bitch Face still very much in evidence.
He heaves out a sigh, not happy with the purpose of the call but knowing its necessity nevertheless. "I think I might need to get my ankle checked out again."
Bobby snorts and Dean can picture the accompanying eyeroll on the other end of the phone. "No Shit Sherlock. Sam and I have been saying that for how long now? What changed your mind?"
Dean ignores the older hunter's question, figures it'll likely come out at some point in the future but not really wanting to relive the all-too recent near-miss right at this moment. "So, I'm thinking maybe I should go back and talk to that surgeon. See what he thinks. Could we maybe crash with you again?"
"You boys miss me that much, huh? Just can't stay away? I know I'm Mr. Personality and all…"
"Shut up," Dean cuts in, the corner of his mouth quirking up with his reply. "Just answer the question old man."
"Well," Bobby draws out, taking his time putting his thoughts into words. "I guess it'd be all right."
Dean lets out a slow exhale, the first hurdle of having to eat crow over and done with.
"But Dean?" Bobby adds, garnering a grunted "Huh?" from the older Winchester. "Try not to be such a dumbass this time around."
To Be Continued…