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

"You sure you're okay over there?"

"Yes mom," Dean mutters sarcastically, continuing to try to shift himself against the head of the bed in an attempt to get his arm and back into a more comfortable position.

They've been back at the Cheddar Wheel Motor Lodge for the better part of two days now and he's still trying to figure out what position will be least likely to send his back into spasms.

So far, he's been unsuccessful.

Nor has he been successful in trying to get Sam to allow him an early exit out of his sling, "just to put my frickin' shirt on the right way".

He's been stuck with having to wear his T shirt overtop of his sling for the first few days following his surgery, the ridiculousness of his appearance (empty T shirt and jacket sleeve flapping in the breeze while his immobilized arm creates a rather tumor-like bump across his chest) rivaling his overall discomfort in the competition to see which sequelae of his fracture and surgical repair Dean can complain about most frequently.

While there's no clear winner, Sam is most definitely the unfortunate loser.

And while he'd at least had a chance of slipping under the radar while Sam had been down for the count, Dean has no wiggle room any more, his younger brother taking seriously his role as nursemaid now that his own symptoms have lessened considerably.

Sam's still using the inhalers on a regular basis, but he's been spreading out their frequency more and more like the doctor in the ER had told him to do, and he's actually been able to sleep for decent portions of the night without waking himself up in a fit of coughing and gasping.

Dean, however, hasn't been quite so lucky.

While the sling is at least supporting his arm and keeping him from moving his shoulder, it's also causing him to feel just a tad bit claustrophobic. Except at night. When it makes him feel a lot claustrophobic.

Because he's used to lying spread-eagle on his belly, knife clutched in his hand, face buried in his pillow.

And now he's relegated to lying on his left side or back, able to clutch a weapon in his right hand only if he wants to impale himself, the feeling of being trapped doing just as much to keep him awake as the actual discomfort of his still aching collarbone.

When Sam finally deems him fit to be able to remove the sling for a couple of minutes in order to begin the passive shoulder motions prescribed by the surgeon, Dean thinks he could practically hug his brother. If he were a hugger. And if said motion wouldn't elicit blinding pain in his arm and chest.

So he settles for following the post-op instructions Sam carefully lays out for him, working his way slowly through the ridiculous pendulum exercises which amount to little more than letting his arm sway back and forth without actually moving it on his own, as well as moving his elbow and wrist through their normal motions in an effort to prevent his whole arm from locking up on him.

And once said "exercises" are completed (Dean taking serious issue with the use of that word in this instance), the elder Winchester feels more satisfaction than he'd ever want to admit when he's allowed to work his T shirt over his freed right arm, careful to keep it passive and still while his left hand does all the work, shrugging it the rest of the way in place before Sam helps him back into the sling.

"Better?" Sam asks, securing the strap around his waist once again.

Dean nods, barely able to suppress a dopey grin of glee while he uses his left hand to try to get the wrinkles under the straps smoothed out, forgoing a verbal response for fear that he might just start shedding tears of joy.

Because now that the sling's on overtop of his shirt, the ridiculous factor has been dialed way down.

The boredom factor, however, is an entirely different matter.

Dean and boredom have never gotten along very well. In fact, their father had often remarked that curiosity may kill the cat but a bored Dean will kill them all. Add injury into the mix and it's a wonder the elder Winchester brother hadn't been smothered in his sleep long ago.

The way they grew up made them no stranger to long stretches of time in the car, long hours spent on stakeouts and research, and long periods of time just waiting for the other shoe to drop in general.

And they've developed coping mechanisms to get them through said interminable hours of nothingness.

Sam usually resorts to his computer, using it to pull up information on whatever it is they're hunting, losing himself to the tech world for hours on end.

But Dean had managed to download a virus onto Sam's computer the first day after his surgery, causing Sam to have to wipe his hard drive and reinstall all the necessary programs.

Needless to say, Sam had not been amused. Although Dean kind of was. Especially when Sam couldn't manage to complete his expletive-laced dressing down due to the coughing fits that kept interrupting his otherwise impressive verbal tirade.

Of course, Dean's resultant laughter had turned out to be its own curse, the shaking of his shoulders jostling his broken bone, ratcheting up the pain in his already throbbing collarbone to the point that he himself was gasping for air.

The brothers have also been known to engage in some rather cutthroat games of poker, winner take whatever the other considered his most prized possession at the time, but Sam's medications, while helping his breathing, did nothing for his mental clarity, and before he'd known what the hell just happened, Dean had laid claim to his favorite silver Zippo.

Of course, the fact that Dean had conveniently "forgotten" to take his own medications may or may not have had an impact on the outcome of the game.

Although it definitely had an impact on the subsequent few hours, when even the slightest hint of a twitch by his shoulder muscles almost made him want to curl up in a ball and pray for the sweet release of unconsciousness.

And while Dean can usually occupy himself for hours cleaning his weapons and playing with his knives, his left hand is nowhere near as skilled as his right, a fact that has Sam on edge each time his brother utters a rather urgent "Oh shit," unsure if a return trip to the ER will be necessary to reattach any missing digits or plug any unintended holes.

Not to mention the fact that Sam's endured just about as much daytime television as he thinks his brain can tolerate without having it actually liquefy and ooze out his ears. He's not sure how much more overacting, see-through plot lines, and mind-numbing dialogue he can handle. The fact that Dean seems to know much more about the ongoing story lines than he himself has been able to glean from their few days in the motel room leaves him highly suspicious that his brother has some side hobbies that seriously need to be mocked.

Dean's answer to Sam's teasing inquiry during one of the Dramatic Music Moments, besides a shifty look, is an emphatic retort for Sam to mind his own damn business.

Because he's pretty sure they're about to reveal who the father really is.

While doing nothing to assure Sam that his brother isn't a closet daytime TV junkie (his brother's impassioned "I knew it" following some Big Reveal Moment in fact cementing his suspicion), Dean's response does spur Sam on to find other ways to fill their downtime.

So Sam scours the web, his computer thankfully suffering no long-term effects from the elder Winchester's foray into questionable websites, trying to find relatively benign activities that will both hold Dean's flea-sized attention span while keeping himself from wanting to poke out his own eyes.

Unfortunately, there's not a whole lot of overlap between the two.

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

"Come on man. Up and at 'em," Sam calls out, gently tugging the covers off of his still sleeping older brother.

"Get off," Dean whines, giving a half-hearted kick in an attempt to prevent Sam from completely taking away his cocoon of warmth.

But Sam persists, flicking on the lights and generally making a ruckus, causing Dean to give a few additional growls of frustration before working himself up into a seated position with his left arm and scrubbing his face in an effort to get some of his brain cells moving.

"What the hell has you so damned happy this morning?" Dean asks, his suspicious gaze taking in his brother's movements as Sam finishes toweling off his wet hair.

"Road trip."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, his interest piquing just slightly at the mention of the road, even if it does mean that he might miss today's episodes; they've been hyping the fact that Tara's going to find out that she has a half-sister by her stepmother's cousin sometime this week. He guesses he'll just have to sweet talk Sam into letting him surf the web later tonight.

"You get us a hunt?" he continues, slowly getting himself upright and stretching out the kinks in his back while he gives Sam a searching glance.

"Yeeaaahh," Sam drawls, before adding, "not so much." He helps Dean out of his sling, keeping an Eagle eye on his brother as he does his short set of arm exercises, inwardly cringing at the thought of letting Dean anywhere near a hunt right now.

Because despite Dean's assurances to the contrary, he's pretty sure his brother won't be fit to pick up a gallon of milk, let alone a job, for a couple of months. And while he, himself, has finished his course of steroids and is no longer needing his inhalers on a routine basis, he's just now starting to feel like a human being again, still weaker and more easily fatigued than he's used to.

Not quite the ideal circumstances to attempt to take on the things that try to kill them on a regular basis.

"So what then?" Dean persists, sitting back down on his bed once he's finished his shoulder exercises, using his lap to keep his right arm supported while his left rifles through his duffle bag in search of semi-clean clothing.

"It's a surprise," Sam says, not yet wanting to divulge his plans to Dean. He's pretty sure his brother will actually enjoy what he's got up his sleeve, but he doesn't want to give him any chances to mock his choices without actually experiencing them first.

"Better be good," Dean mutters, giving his brother a hard glare as he throws his clothing over his left shoulder and makes his way into the bathroom, right arm held carefully by his left.

He'd been given the go-ahead to remove the sling in order to shower at his recent post-op visit, and it's a toss-up as to which Winchester was happier with the fact; Dean had been smelling kind of ripe, the makeshift baths he'd been allowed to take not quite doing the job, and neither Winchester had wanted to revert back to their childhood days of shared bath time.

So although it's still not ideal, what with the inventive contortionism it takes to get his left armpit washed without the use of his right arm and the need to keep his right shoulder immobile even without the sling, he still takes delight in the fact that he can actually take a shower, especially given the fact that there's still hot water left for him, the brothers finding it necessary at times to ensure that the late riser has a rather frigid eye-opener.

Toweling off as best he can with his left hand, Dean slowly gets himself dressed, the majority of the chore now rather manageable after the initial first few days of awkward fumbling, although he still needs Sam's help to get the sling fastened properly.

"Alright," Dean says, picking up his keys with his left hand and swinging the keychain around his index finger, "where am I headed?"

Sam's eyebrow slides up towards his hairline as he gives his brother a look of disbelief, backing up his expression with his retort. "You are headed to the passenger's seat. I'm driving." He neatly snatches the keys out of his brother's hand, making his way outside while Dean sputters along after him.

"Hey! My car. I'm driving."

"Man, you can't even get the car in gear."

"Can so," Dean grumbles, glaring at the sling that makes his assurance virtually impossible, unless he wants to engage in a bit of creative maneuvering that will no doubt be accompanied by an ear full of Sam's self-righteous mocking.

He huffs out his exasperation, giving his brother the hairiest eyeball he can muster before sliding carefully into the passenger's seat, raising a finger in warning when he sees Sam begin to open his mouth to no doubt make some snarky comment about him not even being able to close the door.

The meager slam he manages with his left hand is so not satisfactory.

Dammit.

To Be Continued…

A/N: Love your feedback – thanks!