Hey Guys! So this story was originally published here under the "Fluffy Bunniculas" drabble series, which I've decided to re-publish as separate stories. Too many of the plot-bunny drabbles were turning into more-than-drabbles, so I figured they might be more appropriately published as separate ficlets. Though I really like the term "Fluffy Bunniculas." I'll have to think of way to use that again . . . ;-)

Please do r&r - I LOVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. I'm also willing to take suggestions on which h/c plot bunny I can tackle next.

7x03 – The Cripple and the Chevelle

"Bobby, we've gotta ditch this ambulance before Dr. Fangs back there puts an APB out on it."

"Don't you worry your opiate-addled little head, Dean. My Chevelle's parked at the next turn-off."

Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother, lying motionless in the ambulance-back. A purple-black bruise was spreading over the left side of his forehead, but his breathing seemed steady.

"Should we be worried that he's been out for so long?" said Dean. "Maybe we should take him to another hospital."

Bobby turned to Dean with an exasperated sigh. "Do I really need to explain why that would be a bad idea? That kid's got a skull like a dutch-oven – he'll be fine. They probably just gave him something at the hospital so he'd go into the MRI nice and quiet."

Dean shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his double-vision. "Well, whatever they gave me is sure taking it's sweet time getting out of my system."

"You can sleep it off on the way to Whitefish."

Bobby pulled off the highway without slowing down, fishtailing the fat-bottomed ambulance on the roadside gravel. Dean watched Sam's unsecured gurney skid across the floor and bang against the back doors.

"Dammit, Bobby, they're called brakes!" said Dean. "The kid doesn't need a second concussion!"

"Sorry, mom," said the mechanic with a grimace. "Car's just down this service road."

It wasn't until Dean saw Bobby's Chevelle parked in a fallow cornfield that he thought of a second problem.

"Um, Bobby? Your backseat is something like . . . four feet wide."

"And?"

"So Mr. Six-Foot-Fucking-Four on the gurney back there is not going to appreciate being folded in half for an 18-hour drive."

"You have a better idea, genius? Minus tying him to the roof?"

"How are we even going to get him in there? Bobby, I can't even see straight, much less stand. Much less carry half of Conan-the-Brained-Barbarian."

The sound of sirens echoed down the corn-lined highway.

"Welp," said Bobby, grabbing his hat off the dashboard and shoving it down over his greased-back hair. "Guess we'll just have to figure it out."

"Got him?"

"No! Just, angle him to the right!"

"There's a car door to his right, idjit!"

Dean was squashed, crutches-and-all, in the back of the Chevelle, trying to reach across and drag Sam into the reclined front-seat. His little brother's 220-pound frame was not cooperating. The sirens sounded closer with each second.

"Watch his head, will you!?"

"Would you just grab his goddamn shoulders and pull already?"

"Okay, okay! Now push!"

Inch by inch, Sam's huge, limp body slid into place. Dean reached across and buckled him in. Bobby threw the gurney aside and slammed the door – right on Sam's right foot as it flopped out of place.

"Dammit, Bobby!"

Bobby Singer tucked Sam's foot back into place with an apologetic shrug, then ran around to the driver's side, threw the car into gear and floored it in the direction of the cornfield.

Ninety-seconds later, the Sioux Falls police were taking pictures of the abandoned ambulance, and Bobby Singer's '71 Chevelle was making tracks down Country Highway 133. They hadn't been driving long when Sam's eyes opened. He half-sat up before putting a hand to his head and lying back with a groan.

"Hey, there, Sammy," said Dean, putting a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Dean? Where . . . what are we doing in . . .?"

"Just, take it easy. We're on our way to a nice vacation in Whitefish."

"They kick us out of the hospital?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Why does my foot hurt?"

Dean laughed and turned around to look out the back window. Not a black-and-white in site.

"Your foot, well . . . that you can ask Bobby."

THE END

(Hopefully I can get the next one of these ficlets published soon (it'll be about Dean finally confronting Roy & Walt from "Dark Side of the Moon" - I've been working on it waaay too long and I NEED to get it up here. Soon, my precioussess, sooon . . . Reviews help! ;-P) Keep an eye out!