Sam's probably got more broken bones in his body than he's got whole ones. If that isn't a sorry metaphor for his sad, miserable excuse of a life.

So yeah, when his arm snaps underneath him with a sickening crunch, Sam's well familiar with the sensation of a broken bone, despite his recent blow to the head. He knows it's broken, and he knows, judging from the position and the pain, that it's probably a long road to recovery.

Shit.

But back to more pressing problems. Sam rolls over onto his back, head swimming and left hand clutching his battered right arm to prevent further damage. He's lying next to a brick wall; he vaguely remembers his head slamming against it. As if on cue, something hot and thick drips down into his eyes. He reaches up to touch the wound and his fingers come away red and glossy. Great. That explains the dizziness.

There's his shotgun next to him; he must have dropped it when he was thrown against this wall.

And, as if the floodgates have been opened, Sam's memories rush in. The hunt. The shifter. Dean. Sam tries to sit up and fails miserably; his head pounds and his arm gives an almighty jolt that nearly has Sam puking out his guts. He's proud that his scream of pain comes out only as a whimper.

He closes his eyes, counts to three and tries again, this time expecting the assault of bodily sensations and succeeding. Bleary eyes focus in on his brother, locked in some sort of vicious, violent dance with Sam. Sam's lookalike, rather. God, it had been weird to be thrown into a wall by himself.

The shifter takes a ferocious swipe at Dean's face. Dean nearly dodges, but at the last second, its fist clips him in the cheek. Dean stumbles back but manages to land a blow to its stomach.

Sam's interrupted because, nope, he can't keep the bile down any longer. He turns over and retches out his innards. The effort leaves him dizzy and sweaty and shaky, and his arm hurts worse than ever. He looks up just in time to see the shifter swat Dean's knife out of his hand. It shoves Dean back and he lands on his butt, three yards from Sam and back facing him. Weaponless, defenseless.

"Should've left me the hell alone," it growls in Sam's voice, slowly advancing on Sam's brother.

Dean snarls up at it, "Then you shouldn't have killed people."

Sam's mind forms a brilliant plan.

"Hey!" Both the shifter and Dean turn towards him, but Sam's already moving. Using his uninjured left arm, he slides his gun over the floor to his brother. In one smooth motion, Dean picks up the gun, fires, and drills three silver bullets into the shifter's chest. BAM BAM BAM. It collapses onto the floor, dead. Sam stares into his own glassy, lifeless eyes.

It's too much for him. Black dots swim at the edge of his vision and they won't go away. He focuses his breathing as his blood rushes and pounds through his head and drips through his hair and down his face. He can hear it pumping in his ears, and then it's in his eyes and his ear canals and the world is fuzzy and distant. Sam's awareness goes out to the sound of his own name and a Dean shaped shadow descending upon him.

Sam comes to with a twinge in his arm, a gentle tapping on his face, and a cloudy head. Dean's green eyes swim into focus. He's inches from Sam's face, murmuring words Sam can't make out. He looks intensely relieved to see Sam conscious.

"Hey, Champ," Dean quips with that horrible, forced, devil-may-care grin. The one that means he's trying to hold himself together and may be failing. "Took quite a spill, didn't you?" Dean helps him slowly to a sitting position.

"Understatement." Sam turns his head and spits red on the ground. "Right arm's busted."

"Yeah, I can see that." Dean removes something from Sam's head—Dean's own sweatshirt. It's soaked through with blood. Sam can feel his head swimming again.

"Head wounds bleed a lot, Sam." Dean reads Sam like he's an open book. "I'm not too worried."

That's a lie. A puddle of blood can only grow to be so large before there's no hope for repair. Sam feels like he's nearing that capacity. But he doesn't want to worry Dean any more that he already has.

"We still in the alley?" Sam asks, looking around at dark graffitied walls. The shifter's body is still lying yards away from them, empty eyes boring into him. It seems eerily prophetic to Sam, but he doesn't say as much.

"It wasn't safe to move you when you were unconscious," explains Dean, failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Didn't want to make your head or your arm worse."

"How long was I out?"

"A good few minutes. Called the ambulance, though, should be here any minute."

"Ambulance? No," snaps Sam. "We're wanted by the FBI, dumbass, remember? They'll—" He chokes and vomits onto the pavement again.

Dean puts a hand on his back, rubs his left shoulder blade. "I know, Sammy, but we're kinda out of options here. We can make our great escape after you're better."

"Henriksen's not gonna wait that long." Keeping his arm as still as possible, Sam struggles to put his back against the wall. With its, and Dean's, help, and ignoring Dean's protests, he forces his body to behave, forces his legs to stand.

Sam straightens up and leans heavily against the wall. He grasps Dean's forearm with his good hand. So far, so good.

But as soon as Sam takes a step, he careens forward and, without thinking, jerks his right arm out the break his fall. White hot pain erupts from the broken bit and travels all the way down through his body to his toes, his fingers, the tip of his nose. He screams and braces himself for an impact that doesn't happen, because Dean wraps his arms around his chest and torso and gently helps Sam to sit once again on the pavement.

"Dean," Sam manages through sobs, "we can't go to a freaking hospital. They'll catch us."

"You're in no condition to travel, dammit, and Bobby's is too far! Shit, Sam, if we don't stop that bleeding..." He leaves the thought unfinished. They both know what will happen.

Sam takes deep, calming breaths. Dean wipes away the blood dripping into Sam's eyes.

Finally, Sam shakes his head. "I'm not gonna let you go to jail for the rest of your life."

"Sam, that's a little low on our list of priorities, don't you think?"

"Shut up for a second." Sam's brain feels like he's trying to beat a writhing cobra into submission, but he comes up with an idea. He doesn't like it much, and he's as sure as hell Dean won't like it, but it's something.

"Leave me," says Sam.

"The hell? No way!"

"Dean, think about it. I get medical attention. Henriksen comes for me. I say we split up somewhere, maybe even give him a false lead. After a week or so, you can break me out from the outside."

"No. Not happening." Dean stands, runs a hand over his face, shakes his head. Sam hears sirens in the distance.

"Dean, we're running out of time, and this is the best—hell, maybe the only—option where we both walk away from this. I'm not saying I like it, but it'll work. It has to."

"Sam..." Dean has his back facing him. "What if you... and I'm not there? I can't do that. Not to you."

"That's not gonna happen." This, at least, Sam can assure him. He'll fight for his life every waking moment for Dean. "Dean, you have to trust me. I can do this. But I need you on the outside."

Dean's silent. The sirens grow steadily closer. Then...

"Fine." He turns to Sam, crouching at eye level, and cups his face in his hands, looking him directly in the eye. "You pull through this, you hear? I'll come for you."

"Yeah. I know." Sam closes his eyes, savoring the feeling. He rests his good hand on his brother's. Dean tucks Sam's hair behind his ears.

"Bitch."

Sam smiles. "Jerk."

A cold night wind replaces Dean's hands on Sam's face, leaving Sam shivering from the sudden absence of Dean's contact. Sam opens his eyes to an empty alleyway, save his dead doppelgänger. That should be fun to explain.

Sam's alone when then paramedics arrive, but he knows Dean's watching over him.

He always is.