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 . . . ;-)

This story has been almost completely re-written since the last time I published, so, hope y'all will enjoy it, whether you're re-reading it or reading for the first time. Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome in the review section! I was purposefully trying for a less "touchy-feely" hurt/comfort fic in this one, so I'm interested whether that feel works. Please review!

1x15: Psychopaths and Pancakes

"Dude, take my jacket. You're gonna catch pneumonia."

"Dean, I'm already wearing a jacket."

"Put it over your head, it'll keep you from losing too much heat."

"You're being ridiculous – you can barely get the thing off."

"My shoulder's fine, dude. I'm not the one who spent the night in my shirtsleeves in a 40 degree barn."

"So another hour isn't gonna kill me."

"Just take the goddamn jacket, Sammy! I'm not putting it back on.""

"Idiot."

"Bitch."

The cold rain had been falling for an hour before they spotted the Impala, snug and comfortable where they'd left it in the police-station parking lot. Sam had reluctantly used Dean's leather jacket as an umbrella, but they were both so soaked by the time they got to the car Sam doubted he was any less miserable than his brother. Well – he reconsidered, maybe a little less miserable, seeing as his head wasn't split open and he didn't have a third-degree burn on his shoulder.

"Let me drive, Dean."

"No way."

Sam gave his brother a skeptical glare. "If you can walk in a straight line from here to the car, I'll let you drive."

Dean made it a few exhausted steps before throwing the keys at his little brother's head.

"Ooooh, no, you don't!" said Sam, locking and bolting the motel door behind him. Dean was sprawled on the bed, soaked clothing creating a spreading stain of rain water on the coverlet.

"Leave me alone, you mother-fucking-hen …"

"Yeah. And when your shoulder gets infected and lands you in the hospital next week, I'll be sure and tell them you enjoy getting kidnapped and tortured by hillbillies while impersonating state police."

"Ugh. Fine!"

Dean peeled up his shirt, revealing several purpling bruises on his torso, but stopped there. He pulled the shirt down again. "Hand me the first aid kit – I'll do it myself."

Sam tossed it to him from across the room and Dean caught it left-handed without thinking.

"Ow. Dammit, Sammy!"

"'Sure you don't want any help? I can stitch up your eyebrow if you want."

"Nah. I'll just clean it out – it should scar-up nice." Dean glanced over at Sam, who was trying to get a good look at the dark, swollen cut on the back of his head in the bathroom mirror. Blood had crusted in his brother's long hair.

"You okay yourself, Sammy? When was the last time you ate?"

"Um, yesterday?" said Sam as he dabbed his head wound gingerly with antiseptic.

"I think there's half a deli sandwich and some Sam Adams in the mini-fridge."

"Thanks."

15 minutes later, Sam stepped out of the bathroom - steaming from the shower Dean had insisted he take first – to find his brother still sitting in his wet clothes on the edge of the motel bed, shivering, head in his hands.

"Dean! What the hell, man? You said you were good!" Sam crossed the space between them in what seemed like one stride of his freakishly long legs. "I should just know not to believe you by now."

"'S nothin', Sammy . . . I'm just . . . taking my time getting my shirt off."

"Yeah. Right." Sam pulled a small flashlight out of the first aid kit and pointed it at the burn. It was the size of a cigar, an ugly dark red lesion surrounded by swollen, charred skin. Suddenly Sam understood Dean's reluctance to take his shirt off: his AC/DC shirt-of-the-day had melted into the wound.

"Dammit, Dean. We really need to have a doctor look at this. If we leave even a little bit of clothing debris in the burn, it'll get -."

"No. Not here – the local ER will be crawling with cops, what with Kathleen and those effing yahoos we trussed up getting treated there. You're just gonna have to do."

"Dean –"

"No is no, Sam! If it's still bothering me in a week, you can take me in once we're a couple of states away. But not now. Let's just get this over with."

"Fine. Lie down. I need to go wash my hands."

Sam looked back at his brother in the bathroom mirror, lying back against the headboard with his good arm over his eyes. He shook his head. That man could sleep through anything, but Sam could feel his own stomach churning at the thought of what he had to do. He was used to patching his brother up by now, but it had been a while since he'd had to go into Surgery Mode. On top of that he was exhausted, and hungry. His head ached. And he'd never had to do something like this without his Dad there to help him.

"Sam? Do you need to take a nap before we do this?"

"Nice try, smartass," said Sam, grabbing a clean towel and the Field Surgery kit from under the washroom sink.

"I'm serious man. I'm fine for a few hours if you need a break. We've both had a crap day."

Sam set the kit down on the bed and fished out a pair of surgical gloves and a pack of sterile surgery implements. "We've had worse, and this can't wait."

"Aw, come on, man, this is my favorite T-shirt!" said Dean when he saw his brother open the pack and take out the scissors.

"I will knock you out if I have to."

"Bitch!"

"Jerk."

"Would you hold still?"

"Could you maybe stab me in the shoulder again? I didn't feel it the first 10 times."

"Could you be a bigger baby?"

"This isn't even neces- OW!"

Sam bit his lip as he tried to pull a largish piece of poly-cotton from the oozing wound as gently as possible. As juvenile as he knew it sounded, the combative banter was the only thing keeping them both from crying. He'd been at it for a shattering 20 minutes, and he was only now close to being done. Dean's face was white, his fist choking the life out of the pillow next to him whenever Sam went in with the tweezers. Sam let out a long breath and imagined smashing Lee Bender in the face with a rifle a couple hundred more times.

"Hey Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember that one time in Placerville?"

"I wish I didn't . . ." Sam's tweezers took careful hold of a long string of fabric and began to tug.

"Oh, come on . . . ow! . . . a mine poltergeist? Totally aweso . . .aaaoww!"

"Sorry!" Sam went back to flushing out the wound with a syringe of chilled saline, looking for any stray strands. "Yeah. Cool. Being trapped in a freezing cold mine with a comatose brother and a temporarily-blinded dad. Great way to spend your 15th birthday."

"That was the first time Dad let you help with the medical stuff, remember?"

"Less like 'let' more like 'had to or you were going to die.' He couldn't see – all he could do was hold the flashlight and tell me what to do."

Dean shrugged, wincing as he did so. "Dad made us pancakes every morning for the next week, so maybe it was worth it."

"Right." Sam rolled his eyes. "Pancakes cover over a multitude of ills."

"How many splinters of wood did you pull out of that wound before you sewed it up?"

"79." Satisfied that the last of the fabric & debris had been cleared away, Sam dabbed the wound with antiseptic and lightly covered it with gauze.

"Well," said Dean, with a smile that was more like a grimace. "I can't say you've improved since then, Dr. Howser."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay,dipwit, you know the drill. If this thing swells up or gets pussy or you feel like you're coming down with a fever – you. Have. To. Tell. Me."

"Yeah, yeah – can I shower and sleep now, granny?"

"Nope – long as I'm here we're gonna take a look at that piece of rotting meat you call a face."

"Oh come on, Sammy. So I got shoved into a wall. It happens."

"Dude, your face is covered in blood. You can't sleep like that or the maid is gonna call the cops when she sees your pillowcase."

"Just hand me the kit and I'll do it myself."

"That's what you said 40 minutes ago."

"Goddammit, Sam – I may be beat up, but I'm not blind! Your hands are shaking. You can barely see straight. This is me, pulling rank, and ordering you to eat something and get some rest!"

For a moment the two brothers just glared at each other. Then Sam sighed, placed the kit on the nightstand next to Dean, and made a beeline for the mini-fridge.

15 minutes later, all wounds finally cleaned and bandaged, changed into dry t-shirts and boxers, the brothers sat next to each other on Dean's bed and shared the deli sandwich and the last beer between them.

"You gonna eat that pickle?" asked Dean.

"Yes. Hands off!" Sam smacked his brother lightly on his outstretched hand.

"Ow! Dude! Hands off the wounded!"

"What do you want me to do, make you pancakes?"

Dean flashed the disarming grin he'd been perfecting, Sam was pretty sure, since he was an infant. "That's not a bad idea."

"Next time you're almost killed in a poltergeist-induced mine explosion, let me know."

"Dude, hillbilly-torture is definitely in the same category."

"You can still walk. Doesn't count."

"Alright, next time we can take a hot iron to your pretty skin."

"Hey, I'm the one who had to fight off a rifleman with a bracket." Sam consumed the disputed pickle in two determined bites. Dean frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Their banter had reached the tender spot in his chest, the part that had collapsed into agonized emptiness when he'd heard the first shot from the barn. The part he had no plans to share with his brother any time soon.

"You seriously told those yahoos they could shoot me?" said Sam with a sidelong glance.

"Oh, come on – there was a hot poker a centimeter from my eye! You could've taken them. You DID take them!"

"Sure you didn't just have the hots for that cop?"

"Shut up, Sam."

"Jerk."

"Idiot."

5 minutes later, Dean was snoring on the bed, not having bothered to climb under the covers. Sam grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and spread it over his brother, taking a closer look at the jagged cut on his brother's head as he did so. It was going to leave a nasty scar – but Dean liked that. He wore them like medals.

Sam wondered what scars Dean's encounter with the Benders had left that he couldn't see. It wasn't like Dean to say. And there was nothing Sam could do about that.

Nothing, that was, except buy his brother some pancakes the next morning. Pancakes, Sam thought to himself as he turned off the light and lay back on his pillow, listening to Dean's contented snores. Psychopaths and torture could do their worst, but pancakes covered over a multitude of ills.

The End