Dean knows a broken hand when he sees one. And Sam's broken his had enough times to know what a broken hand feels like. Yet every time he forgets just how much it hurts. In fact every time it seems to get prgressively painful. Dean can't stop his grimaces as Sam cries out at even the tiniest of nudges against the swollen digits.

"Dean," Sam growls between his teeth, "I am quite capable of walking. It's my hand that's broken, not my legs."

Dean scoffs, "Please, you're shaking like a leaf, you wouldn't be able to walk five steps without falling onto your ass." He raises an eyebrow, "Or your face. And then you'll really fuck up your hand trying to save your clumsy ass."

Sam tears his gaze away from Dean, his cheeks flushing red, "Fine. Just take me to the hospital or somethin' to get my fuckin' hand fixed."

"Sam, are you shitting me? We're covered in blood- someone else's blood -and not a scratch on our body. Plus you going in with a broken hand?" Dean shakes his head, "We scream guilty. No sirree, I'm fixing your hand tonight."

Sam is terrified.

Later that night, Dean is attempting to gently wrap gauze around Sam's hand, but it's twice it's normal size, and Sam won't stop tugging it away and yelping every time Dean barely grazes it.

"For Christ's sakes, Sam, I don't wanna sound like an asshole, but suck it up!" Dean snarls, reaching for Sam's hand.

Sam pulls it away again, "Jesus, you're so brutal!"

Dean snorts, "That's what she said."

"Oh, grow up will-" But Sam cuts himself off with his own yelp, Dean roughly grabbing his hand and slamming it down onto the table. Sam all but howls.

"That'll teach ya." Dean snickers, quickly but harshly wrapping the gauze around Sam's hand as he repeatedly yelps 'ow' and 'Jesus fucking Christ!'.

When Sam's hand is finally done, he refuses to talk to Dean. His hand is throbbing and Dean's done a shit job of putting it in a temporary cast. He ignores Dean, is even so stubborn that he refuses to eat dinner, at least not the kind Dean made. And he's practically handicapped now, so the best he can make is toast. Toast for dinner.

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy, you're not really mad at me, are you?"

No answer.

"Sammy?"

Nothing.

"Sam."

Sam carefully takes out the toast with his good hand.

"Sam!"

Sam feels his good hand being smacked, the toast falling from his grip. His jaw drops, and he goes bug eyed. His dinner lies on the floor.

"Dean! Are you kidding me? That's the only thing I could make for dinner and for Christ's sakes, I used the last pieces of toast too! Dammit, Dean!"

Dean just grins happily, "Made you talk."