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

A/N: A heartfelt Thank You to each and every one of you Reviewers, Followers, and Favorite-ers. You guys are awesome!

Dean lets the Impala's engine idle for a few minutes, unable to put the car in park or turn the keys in the ignition with his right hand, given the incapacitating pain that just the thought of said motion elicits. Not to mention the very real possibility of a return trip by the contents of his lunch onto the floor of his car, having experienced that same threat when he'd tried to reach across his body to perform those tasks in the first place.

That burger wasn't good enough going down the first time; he'd really rather not taste it again on the way back up.

But short of either sitting here until the Impala runs out of gas or until Sam comes out to see what's taking him so long, he's got to do something.

Like suck it up and stop acting like a gigantic baby.

And so he works slowly, carefully angling himself further towards the passenger's side of the car while keeping his foot planted firmly on the brake until he can use his left hand to put the car in park, his right arm still held immobile against his side. From this position, he can also turn the keys, which he gratefully does, taking them out of the ignition awkwardly with his left hand and transferring them to his right, palming them in order to give his otherwise unused appendage something useful to do.

Next, he eases out of the car, carefully unfolding himself while his left hand tries to offer support to his right arm, breathing out a sigh of relief once he's managed to gain an upright position without spewing his stomach contents all over the parking lot or passing out cold right there on the spot.

He makes his way cautiously up the sidewalk to the door of their motel room, his upper body listing slightly to the right in an effort to compensate for the pain and positioning of his shoulder, allowing himself one last grimace before steeling himself to come under the scrutiny of Sam's Eagle eye.

The continued coughing fits emanating from the other side of the motel room door have him hopeful that said Eagle eye will be just a touch less Eagle-y today.

Okay. Showtime.

"Hey," he says, carefully closing the door behind himself with his left hand, his right hand playing with his car keys while his right elbow sticks tight to his side in something that he hopes looks like a semi-normal position.

He gives his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim interior lighting, his brow furrowing in genuine concern when he sees the pallor on his little brother's face, pure exhaustion evident in every bone of the gigantor body that's slumped against the head of the bed in a poor approximation of something resembling a living, breathing human being.

"How're you feeling?" He wisely chokes down the "because you look like crap" follow-up statement that almost falls out of his mouth, certain that such a rejoinder would put Sam on the offensive, calling his own less than stellar appearance into question in return.

"Awesome," Sam croaks out, that one word sending his lungs into spasms that bely his statement. "Uggghhhh," he groans out when his coughing fit has passed. "How'd it go?" he asks, rubbing his chest against the wheezing sting that's set up shop. "Did you get it?"

"Yep," Dean says, careful to have his mask of bravado in place. "Roasted and toasted. Nice and crispy," he adds, not sure if his nonchalance is meant more for himself or for Sam.

"Great. So now what?" Sam asks, succumbing to another coughing fit at the tail end of his question.

"Now we sit tight until you can breathe without hacking up a lung," Dean says, eyebrow raised in his best expression of Big Brother authority.

In truth, he's pretty sure he won't be good for much of anything right now either. It was all he could do to drive the five miles back to the motel without passing out, each bump in the road sending an ungodly spike of pain into his upper chest and shoulder.

He doesn't even want to begin to think about what hitting an actual pothole would feel like.

"Hey," Sam says, not missing the greenish tinge to his brother's complexion as Dean contemplates his latest thought. "You okay?"

"What?" Dean asks, blinking several times to clear the nauseating pothole train of thought from his brain. "Yeah. Fine."

He eases himself down into the chair at the little table just inside the room, careful to keep his face neutral against the threat of another grimace of pain as he tries to find some kind of position that won't make him want to curl up into a whimpering ball on the floor.

"You hungry?" Dean asks, thumbing through the meager Yellow Pages listing for delivery services in the area. Because he's not looking to drive anywhere just yet and their room contains the usual amount of mid-hunt fare. Which is a whole lot of nothing. And while he's still bordering on nausea with each tiny movement of his shoulder, he could still eat. As should Sam.

He eyeballs his brother, still slumped against the head of the bed, his wheezing just barely audible over the hum of the heater, and takes some comfort in the fact that at least Sam looks to be breathing relatively easily. When he's not busy trying to eject his lungs from his chest cavity, that is.

"I dunno," Sam replies in answer to Dean's question. "Yeah. Maybe?"

Sam really hasn't eaten much over the past couple of days, his appetite having been yet another casualty to his illness. But he knows he should probably get something into his stomach soon. Knows that his body needs nutrients to help fight off whatever germs he's got coursing through his veins.

And so he agrees that soup and sandwiches might just be tolerable, more than a little surprised when Dean places a call to have the food delivered. They usually don't like to spring for delivery.

But when Sam questions Dean about it, his brother just says he's let Sam out of his sight long enough, doesn't want to leave him alone any more.

Sam thinks to call "Bullshit" on Dean's reasoning, but the sentiment is put on the back burner by yet another spasm of coughing, effectively ending his argument about him being just fine, thank you very much.

And when Sam asks Dean exactly why it is that he's trying to eat his soup with his left hand, Dean just shrugs him off, saying he's been trying to become more ambidextrous.

Sam gives his brother a hard look, but just doesn't have the energy to delve deeper into the topic just now, all of his concentration being required to keep himself from choking to death on his supper on the off chance that he happens to be eating when his next coughing fit takes hold.

And later that night, after Dean's performed his little mother hen routine by ensuring Sam's tucked in for the night and has taken the necessary medications from their paltry first aid kit, Sam makes mention of the fact that Dean still hasn't taken off his jacket. To which Dean replies that he's cold. Even though Sam can clearly see the beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.

But instead of trying to get Dean to spill the beans on just what, for Pete's sake, is going on with him, he succumbs to yet another few minutes of coughing and gasping, his head pounding with lack of oxygen by the end of his little impromptu workout.

By the time Sam has quite literally come up for air, Dean is tucked under his own blankets, eyes closed, lying on his left side, looking for all the world like he's ready to drift off to sleep at any moment.

In truth, he's anything but. In fact, he's not sure that he'll actually be able to fall asleep tonight, between Sam's coughing and the pain in his upper chest that rears its ugly head with any miniscule movement by his shoulder. He'd snuck a leftover Vicodin while he was dishing out Sam's medicines, but even that's done little to take the edge off. He hadn't even been able to weasel his way out of his jacket when he'd tried, the motion it had necessitated instead sending blinding jolts up through his arm and chest and taking his own breath away.

Jesus, he thinks to himself as he tries to get into a passably comfortable position, what a frickin' pair of sorry-ass hunters we are.

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

When Sam's sleep-weary eyes take in the LED readout of the little alarm clock on the nightstand between their beds, he's dismayed to see that it's 2:12 AM. Only thirty-five minutes after the last coughing fit woke him up. At this rate, he's going to need to sleep for a month to make up for his sleepless nights spent hacking and wheezing.

He glances over at Dean's bed to make sure he's not disturbing his brother, only to find the other bed empty, the sheets hanging off the side of the bed like someone had been dragged out against their will. And while he's not sure if Dean had actually been asleep, Sam knows that the last time he looked, Dean was still there in his bed. So at least he couldn't have gone too far.

He cranes his neck a little, finally able to make out the light shining underneath the closed bathroom door on the other side of the room, laying his head back on his pillow now that he knows where his brother is.

He lays quietly for a few moments, listening to the trailing wheeze on the ends of his exhalations, then holds his breath when he hears another sound in the background once the heater's kicked off.

He'd know that sound anywhere.

Dean.

Sam works himself into a seated position, then climbs carefully out of bed, straightening slowly to avoid the lightheadedness that likes to set in lately when he tries to change positions too quickly, shuffling over to the bathroom in an attempt to find out once and for all what's been going on with his brother.

"Dean?" he croaks out, the concern evident in his froggy voice. He gives a couple of soft knocks when he gets no answer, then renews his efforts, calling out a little more forcefully. "Dean!"

"Yeah," comes the gasping reply.

"You okay in there?"

"Fantastic," the automatic reply.

Sam isn't buying it.

Especially when his brain replays all of the little things since Dean got back from the hunt. Not using his right arm. Not taking off his jacket. His slow and careful movements.

Dammit, Sam thinks to himself, giving himself a mental head slap. I should have seen it sooner.

He gives another knock on the door, then tries the doorknob when he fails to get any response, more than a little surprised when the knob turns freely under his hand, allowing him entrance into the small dingy bathroom.

The sight in front of his eyes does nothing to assuage the suspicions that have arisen in his germ-addled brain.

Dean's seated on the edge of the tub, curled into himself, his left hand pressed to his upper right chest, right arm still tucked tight against his side. The faint humming that Sam had heard through the door has stopped, as has the gentle rocking motion in which Dean had been engaged when Sam first opened the door.

Instead, he's blowing out controlled breaths through pursed lips in an attempt to get himself under control, the pain from having accidentally tried to move his right arm when he was drifting off to sleep sending him dangerously close to passing our right there on the grungy motel room floor.

He'd barely made it into the bathroom where he thought he'd be able to ride out the pain well out of earshot of Sam, and the very real continued possibility of blowing chunks made close proximity to the toilet not a bad idea anyway.

Not quite the evening he had planned.

"Dude, what's going on?" Sam asks, lowering himself down onto the closed toilet seat.

"Nothing, Sam. Go back to bed. You need your rest."

"Bullshit," Sam says, this time managing to get his thoughts out of his mouth. "Something's wrong. Tell me."

Dean stays silent, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tries to figure out if there's any way this doesn't end up with Sam finding out the truth.

Dammit.

He lets out a resigned sigh when he gets no bright ideas, screwing up his face into an expression of wry apology as he glances up at his brother.

"Would you believe I got tackled by a 500-pound ghost?"

"And?" Sam prompts, his curiosity not yet sated.

"And I kind of landed on my shoulder?"

Sam rolls his eyes, huffs out an expression of exasperation before trying to stifle a cough, and then says, "Is it out? Why didn't you tell me, dumbass? I could have put it back in for you hours ago."

"Ummm," Dean draws out, "not exactly."

"Well what then?" Sam asks, his gaze sharpening in an effort to see beneath his brother's jacket and shirts to the underlying anatomy.

Dean shifts his left hand from its position on his collarbone, moving his shirts and jacket out of the way in order for Sam to get a good look at the grotesque bump that is the current bane of his existence.

Sam's eyes widen, his head shrinking back just a tad when he gets a look at the skin tenting over Dean's broken bone, his gaze darting back up to his brother's face quickly to do a more thorough search of how he's holding up.

"Can you move it?"

Dean shakes his head quickly, his face paling a bit as he even thinks about doing so.

Sam makes him squeeze his hand, checks to make sure he can feel everything, and just tells Dean to "shut up and let me do this, you big jerk" when Dean tries to reassure his little brother that he's already done all of this stuff himself.

Not that Dean can really blame Sam; he has been a little less than forthcoming and he'd want the same reassurance if the shoe was on the other foot, so to speak.

"Want to move this little party out of here?" Dean asks, his ass now protesting his position perched on the narrow edge of the tub.

Sam helps haul Dean to his feet, not missing the grimace on his face or the compensatory rightward tilt of his upper body as he makes his way to his bed, sitting down gingerly on the end before doubling over again, a groan escaping past his otherwise clenched teeth.

"So," Sam says, easing himself down into the armchair across from where Dean's seated, giving in to another brief fit of coughing before being able to continue. "Just what was the game plan here?" Sam asks, giving his brother the best Bitch Face he can muster under the circumstances.

Dean gives a half-hearted one-shouldered shrug, a look of chagrin making its way onto his face. Because in truth, he hadn't really thought past "don't let Sam find out".

He's really got to work on coming up with better plans.

To Be Continued…