Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.

Author's Note: I'm still working on Head Over Wheels; the voices in my head just wanted this one to happen first. (They say "Hi" by the way!)

Dean's walking innocently down the street, minding his own business. Well, he's actually minding the backside of a hot young blonde. And it's a pretty nice view, if he does say so himself. Poured-on jeans, legs that go on forever. He catches her eye as she walks past, giving her his patented Dean Winchester wink, and then halfway turns to follow her progress as she continues on past him.

The fact that he's dangerously close to the edge of the curb doesn't even register in his otherwise occupied man-brain. Not like he's in danger of getting struck by a car if he steps off the sidewalk in this sleepy little town.

But said curb has its own set of perils.

He's still smirking as he watches her walk away when the sidewalk suddenly ends, the curb giving way to a several inch drop his right foot isn't expecting. While his foot searches for its next landing, his arms pinwheel briefly through the air and his attention turns from the blonde to his own predicament.

Shit.

He feels a couple of pops as his right ankle rolls over on itself, immediate pain replacing any other coherent thought as he takes a rather inelegant nosedive to the unforgiving asphalt.

When he finally opens his eyes, he finds himself laying on his back, half on and half off the sidewalk, the blonde's face hovering in his line of vision.

"Are you okay?" she asks, concern replacing the previous look of interest she'd shot him on her way past just seconds before his not so graceful tumble.

He throws on a confident smile, trying to cover the embarrassment lurking just beneath the surface. "Yeah, I'm good. Just enjoying the view."

He's not technically lying; he is, in fact, enjoying the view of her face. Nor is he telling the complete truth. Because he's not at all sure he can actually get up. Not without falling flat on his ass, anyway. But he doesn't want anyone around to witness it if that turns out to be the case.

"You sure?" she asks, a dubious look replacing the former look of concern.

"Yep," Dean says with more confidence than he actually feels, waving her off with a casual movement of his hand. He works carefully to get himself semi-upright, hoists himself into a seated position on the curb while giving her a reassuring smile. "Nothing to see here."

"Okay," she says under her breath, shaking her head as she turns and walks away.

Not having lost his vision in his tumble, he appreciates her backside for a second time, then breathes a sigh of relief when she turns the corner. He slowly flexes his ankle, rolls it around a little and lets out another breath when it doesn't feel too terrible. Feels like any other of the innumerable sprains he's had over the years.

His thought changes quickly, however, when he pushes himself to his feet and begins to put pressure on his right leg. He lets out a little hissed half-laugh/half-scream that makes him thankful he sent the blonde on her way before she got wind of that rather unmanly expression. The pain holds him hostage, trapped and immobile as he tries to figure out how to get out of this mess while keeping the weight off of his injured limb.

His task had been simple: drive into town, pick up the herbs from the semi-shady "Nature" store Bobby had asked them to visit on the way back from their last hunt, and then pick Sam back up from the library. Sam had argued that he wouldn't be long, just needed to locate a rare book he'd found online through something Sam called an "interlibrary loan", but Dean had wanted no part of his brother's geeked out endeavors.

And so now he stands, by himself, in the middle of the empty sidewalk, working up the nerve to begin the rather arduous two block journey back to the Impala, the thoughts of Sam and his herbal recovery mission long-forgotten.

He groans as he gives his ankle another chance to redeem itself, can't even make it a full step before he has to get his weight off of it. He casts another furtive look around before beginning to hop his way back to the car, has to stop midway down the block in order to catch his breath, keeping his balance by holding onto the brick building on his right. He re-evaluates his situation once his breathing has fallen back into a normal rhythm, settling into a more manageable although much more painful mode of ambulation for the rest of his journey: for every abbreviated limping step he takes with his right foot, he takes two hops on his left, stopping every few feet to try to breathe through the pain that threatens to steal the remaining air from his lungs.

"Come to daddy," Dean groans out, gratefully splaying himself over the top of the car's driver side roof while he tries to get himself back under control. After a few minutes of slow deep breathing, he carefully works his way into the driver's seat, resting his head against the steering wheel before starting the car.

He's not looking forward to the drive back to their motel room; it's only a couple of miles, but the thought of stepping on the gas and brake pedals with his right leg makes his stomach clench. He briefly considers driving with his left foot instead, then figures he'd rather deal with the pain in his right than endanger his car with his less coordinated left.

By the time he gets himself back into their room, he's pasty white, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, right leg trembling with each limping step he has to take. He sinks onto his bed where he prays the Excuse Fairy will bless him with a better story for his brother than what actually happened.

It doesn't.

()o()o()o()o()

"Dean, what the hell man?" Sam asks, slamming the door behind him as he enters the motel room. "You were supposed to pick me up over an hour ago."

Dean doesn't move, just grunts out from underneath the arms he's got covering his face.

Sam spares a glance at where his brother's lying on the bed, fails to notice the sheen of sweat gracing his forehead and the albino tint of his skin as he focuses instead on his own ire. "Come on, let's get something to eat. I'm starving. Let's go," Sam growls, smacking Dean's still booted right foot as he passes by, an annoyed gesture to get his brother's ass in gear.

Dean lets out a strangled cry, arms moving from his face to grip the sides of the bed as he pants through the pain.

"What'd I…" Sam trails off, takes in his brother's change in countenance and narrows his eyes. "What'd you do?" he tries again, the initial defensive tone replaced by one of suspicion.

Dean's breathing gradually slows as the jarring of his ankle becomes a more distant memory and he finally cracks open his right eye and gives Sam a tenuous smile.

"I hit a snag?" Dean asks more than states. He has yet to come up with something that won't allow Sam endless mocking rights for the near (and likely far distant) future.

"Care to elaborate?" Sam asks, inching closer to the end of Dean's bed.

Dean eyes him warily, already anticipating his brother's next move. "Not really."

Sam rolls his eyes and sets to work on triaging his brother. Dean had managed to untie his right boot but didn't get any further – the amount of swelling already present necessitated more shimmying than Dean could manage on his own. Sam gently eases off Dean's boot and sock, Dean deep breathing his way through the maneuvers, eyes again hidden behind his arms, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white.

"Ow. Shit. Stop," Dean pants, trying to draw his leg away from Sam's prying fingers when his brother starts to prod his ankle. Sam just keeps a firm grasp on the middle of his brother's calf, well above his ankle, eyeballing the purple basketball that's replaced the lower portion of his brother's leg.

He lets out a low whistle, impressed by the swelling and coloration that's already evolved. "How'd you get back here? Did you walk on this? Did you drive on this?"

"Had to," Dean says weakly, regaining his breath now that Sam's stopped poking his angry ankle.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Why indeed? Dean couldn't very well tell his brother that he was too busy trying not to pass out from the pain. And then, by the time he'd gotten back to the motel and remembered Sam, he'd been busy trying to come up with a cover story. And driving back out to the library for his brother was not as high on his priority list as not fainting like a girl.

"Well," says, Sam, standing up decisively, "let's go."

"Go where?"

"To get this checked out, dumbass."

"It's just a sprain," Dean says, working his way upright, propping himself against the headboard of the bed. "It just needs a day or two."

Sam eyes his brother, weighing Dean' pain tolerance against his stubborn streak, and knows that he'd probably make the same argument if their roles were reversed. And given the location of the tenderness and swelling he has to admit that it's more likely a sprain than a break, in which case a day or two will hopefully make a huge improvement.

So instead of arguing further, he makes short work of getting Dean's ankle ACE wrapped, propping it up on a couple of pillows and placing a hastily gathered bag of ice over top. He plucks Dean's keys off the bedside table, returning with take-out and a pair of aluminum crutches he picked up at a thrift store on the outskirts of town.

He's seriously considering just keeping a spare pair along with a shoulder sling in the trunk. Lord knows it would save them money in the long run.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam's given Dean's ankle a fair trial. Has given it the requisite 48 hours to figure out how bad it is. Sam's now kicking himself for not insisting on taking his brother to get it checked out sooner. He's tried, but not hard enough. Every time he brings it up, Dean just says it needs a little more time. Says it's feeling better. But Sam's eagle eye has taken in the way his brother continues to cringe every time he tries to put pressure on his ankle, still can't take a full step before letting out a curse and shifting the weight over to his left leg.

"Come on man," Sam says. "We've gotta get that ankle looked at."

"It'll be fine. Just needs a little time."

"Dean. It's been two days. And you still can't walk on it."

"What do you call this?" Dean asks, gesturing to himself. He's propped up on his crutches, making a valiant effort at trying to approximate being mobile.

Sam gives his brother a leveled glance and holds out his hand. "Fine. Give me the crutches."

Dean purses his lips and narrows his eyes at his brother's dirty play. He straightens his shoulders and shifts his position, carefully balancing himself before handing over his main source of mobility.

Sam grabs them away and then stalks to the other side of the room, leans them against the wall next to him, crossing his arms as he leans against the motel room door. "Okay. Now walk over to me."

Dean eyeballs his current predicament, takes in the length of the room between himself and Sam. On a normal day it'd take him about four strides to reach his brother. But right now? They could be here all day. He clenches his teeth and takes a deep breath, steeling himself to cross the longest motel room ever.

He really hasn't been putting much pressure on his right leg up to this point, has been using the crutches exclusively to get around, and hopes to God that the fact that he's stayed off of it for the past 48 hours has magically healed it.

It hasn't.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at him, daring him to show him how "fine" he is.

Dean shifts his weight to his left leg, takes a deep breath, and attempts to take a step with his right foot. He gets about half of his weight on it before he's forced to take a couple of stutter-hops with his left foot, reaching out to hold onto the wall to balance himself the rest of the way.

"Shit," he breathes out, the pain stealing away any more eloquent thoughts.

"Any day now, Hopalong," Sam says, bland expression on his face.

Dean shoots a scowl at his brother, followed closely by the extension of the middle finger of the hand not holding himself upright. He gives his ankle another try, comes up with the same result, and lets out a growl of frustration.

"Can we go now?" Sam asks, eyebrow cocked to the ceiling.

Dean just hangs his head, shoulders dropping in resignation.

Sam's countenance changes immediately from hard-ass to concerned brother now that Dean's agreed to get medical attention, and he crosses the room in a couple of his gigantor steps, rapidly giving the crutches back to his brother and ushering him over to the bed.

The brothers have a brief argument over Dean's footwear, Dean insisting Sam help him get the boot on his right foot, Sam insisting that he doesn't need it since he's not walking on it anyway. Sam wins, but only after a couple of attempts at getting the boot back on bring Dean to the brink of hyperventilation. The swelling and bruising have gone down but the tug and wiggle it takes to get the boot in place are more than he can handle.

()o()o()o()o()

"When did this happen?" the doctor at the clinic asks Dean, taking in the bruising that's graduated from blue-purple to a more vivid green discoloration.

Dean shrugs from his seat on the exam table and replies, "Two days ago."

"And you didn't come in until now because….?"

Sam can't very say "Because my brother's a dumbass", but he's thinking it.

Dean throws a glance at Sam, warning him verbally against any "I told you so's" and holds fast to his mantra. "I thought it would get better".

Dean fares better with the doctor's exam than he did with Sam's initial exploration, but the doctor expresses concern given his continued inability to put much pressure on it and the amount of abnormal motion his right ankle allows compared to his left. The x-rays are negative but the doctor diagnoses him with a Grade 3 sprain, explaining that he's completely torn several of the ligaments that should be holding his ankle together without actually breaking any bones.

Dean's initial relief and consideration of telling Sam where he can stick his WebMD doctor's degree are cut short when the doctor goes on to say that with the severity of his sprain, it may take him as long if not longer to fully recover versus if he had simply suffered a fracture.

With that piece of not so helpful information, the doctor exits the exam room, leaving Sam and Dean scowling at each other.

"You're an idiot," Sam huffs at his brother.

"Me?" Dean's voice rises indignantly. "How is this my fault? Not like I tried to get injured, here."

Sam casts a suspicious glance at his brother and says, "I don't know how this is your fault. But it is."

Further discussion of whose fault Dean's ankle injury may or may not be is put on hold when the doctor returns, a large black Velcro walking boot in his right hand and paperwork in his left.

"I thought you said it was a sprain!" Dean says emphatically, eyeballing the contraption the doctor's placed on the table next to him.

"Yeah," Sam says, rolling his eyes, "one as bad as a break." The dumbass is implied.

"It's either this or a cast for three weeks," says the doctor when Dean tries to put up further protest.

Sam can see his brother carefully weighing the options, knows he should probably push for the cast since Dean is far from a model patient. Also knows his own life will probably be much easier if he lets Dean take the boot.

Sure enough, Dean quickly agrees to the boot, figures this way he'll be able to take the damned thing off on his own terms.

"Alright," says the doctor once he's gotten Dean's right leg snugly fitted into the boot, "this stays on for three weeks, right?" He raises an eyebrow at Dean, awaiting his patient's confirmation, then turns his attention to Sam instead. "Right?"

Sam nods, Bitch Face in place to let his brother know how seriously he'll be riding his ass on this one.

"And no walking on it until you get it checked out again. Got it?"

The boys had already explained that they were just passing through. Already have the discs with the x-ray images and information on how to get notes on today's office visit sent when they get "home".

Dean barely bites back the pout as he takes in the unwieldy contraption that encases his leg from his foot to below his knee, finally nodding and shaking the doctor's hand in reluctant thanks.

"Come on, Hopalong," Sam says, holding his hand out to help Dean to his feet once the two of them are alone in the room again. "Let's go get something to eat."

Dean slides off the exam table, holding on to Sam for balance while he gets the crutches under his arms. His ankle does feel better now that he can't really move it, but damned if he'll let Sam in on that tidbit of information. He quickly adjusts to the different way he has to hold his leg with the boot in place, crutching his way outside only to groan when he realizes he's in for yet another several weeks of not being able to drive.

()o()o()o()o()

They stop at a diner on the way out of town, both of them eager to fill their stomachs before heading towards Bobby's. Dean eases himself out of the car, balancing carefully against the Impala until he can get the crutches tucked under his armpits. He allows Sam to go ahead, merely grunts at his brother as he holds the door open for him and heads over to an empty booth, sliding in so he can stretch his right foot out a little into the aisle.

"You've gotta be freakin' kidding me," Dean mutters, trying to slide down lower in the booth, raising his menu in front of his face as their waitress approaches.

"What can I get you guys…" she trails off, tilting her head to the side and looking at Dean as if she's trying to place him. Her eyes go wide as she glimpses the crutches propped up on the wall next to him, her quick downward glance taking in the boot that's sticking out from beneath the table.

"Oh, hey!" she says, now able to place her newest customer.

Sam's eyebrows furrow as his glance bounces between his brother and the pretty blonde waitress, trying to figure out how she could possibly recognize Dean. He knows he sure doesn't recognize her and he doesn't think Dean's been out of his sight long enough to have done much in this town. He narrows his eyes, takes in his brother's shifty countenance, and gets a sneaking suspicion that she might know a little something about what Dean's been trying to keep under wraps.

"Hey, Stacy," Sam draws out, reading her name off of her nametag. He flashes his dimples at her, puppy dog eyes on full blast.

"Hey," she says, smiling back distractedly, her focus still clearly on Dean, who's busy trying to disappear through the floor of the diner. "You okay?" she asks him.

Dean gives her a strained smile, works himself back up from the slouched position that did nothing to hide him from the indignity he's pretty sure is about to unfold.

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks."

"It's a real shame, huh?" Sam asks her, his tone implying a level of concern he's not all that sure Dean deserves.

"Oh, I know," she breathes, hand jumping up to cover her bleeding heart. "I saw the whole thing. Poor guy just fell off the side of the curb."

Sam keeps his features schooled, just nods in a show of understanding as his mind races to make all the applicable connections.

"Fell off the curb, huh?" Sam asks blandly once Stacy has taken their orders and left the brothers alone again.

"I might have been otherwise occupied?" Dean replies, his tone more of a question as he avoids Sam's gaze, the wrapper of his straw holding much more interest.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Were you occupied with her?" Sam says, tilting his head towards Stacy, who's busy throwing eye flirts back at his brother from her location behind the counter.

"Maybe," he admits nonchalantly before the ends of his lips turn up into a rather devilish grin. "She's got a great ass."

Sam merely shakes his head and huffs out his exasperation at his brother. "And you are a dumb ass."

A/N 2: I meant this to be a One Shot, but I think there might be more…