AN: A day late…again. Oops Prompt options for yesterday: Accidents / Hunting Season / Mugged

This takes place in season 1, but I messed with the timeline just a bit to make it work. The boys are still looking for John but are in touch with Bobby. I like the concept but it came out kinda blah. Oh, well. C'est la vie.

Shazza19: You made me smile! I think this chapter is a bit bland, no real fun lines, but I hope you like it anyway.

Scealai: 18 hours?! Holy crap! If I hid from the snow like I'd like to, I'd be in the house for 6-7 months a year. A few years ago, it snowed every single day of December. Barf! And fries in the Frosty is something a few people I know swear by, but not something I do…and I wouldn't let anyone do it to my Frosty. LOL Also, I'll add that chapter to my "maybe need to expand" list. Cuz you're right – it just kinda ends.

sylva37: Aw, thank you! And yeah, that was pretty gross. Sorry / not sorry. hehe

Just three minutes after Dean finally got comfortable, his phone rang. He groaned with real feeling. He hadn't realized just how much he'd gotten thrown around by the good people of Burkitsville until he'd gotten stiffly out of Baby at their motel. Sam must have been feeling guilty for leaving Dean earlier, because he'd extra solicitous, all but tucking Dean in with the heating pad laid against his aching shoulder. Sam grabbed the phone, and Dean nodded. "Just put it on speaker."

"Dean?" The voice was deep and gruff, belonging to an older man.

"Yeah?"

"Sherman McAllister. I don't know if you remember me…"

"General? I haven't talked to you in years. How's tricks?"

A short laugh. "Got myself a little laid up here, looking for some help. I called your dad, cuz he's helped with this situation before, but his message said to call you."

Dean winced, just a little. Dad was a bit of a sore topic right now, especially with his brother, who was turned away from Dean but probably grinding his teeth. "Yeah. Yeah, he's on something big right now. But, uh, Sammy's hunting with me right now. Whaddaya need?"

"He is? I'll be damned. I never thought the kid would stick with the life. He was a damn fine hunter, even as a kid, so I'm glad to hear that. And we're running pretty short-handed right now, so two of you would be even better, if you're willing to help."

The old hunter buddy of their dad's explained that in a certain spot, every five years exactly, a bunch of incubi would appear. Nobody could figure out how to prevent them from coming, so The General would gather a group of hunters ahead of time to take them out as they crawled out into the world. They emerged in a form that looked like smoke, then solidified into their humanoid shape. As they were in mid-transition, they were vulnerable, easily killed by consecrated iron bullets. Once they completed the solidification, they were extraordinarily hard to kill. It became a three-step process involving dismemberment, burning, and burying on holy ground. And a living, fully formed incubus was a killing machine.

Still, McAllister claimed it was an easy job. "Your dad never wanted you to come, probably because it's a pretty rough bunch there. They're good hunters, but a little rowdy. Usually one of the old guard is there to keep 'em in check, but me and Rufus are laid up and Singer's somewhere in Venezuela, I think. Since your pa's outta reach, it will only be a buncha you kids."

Skeet shooting minor demons with high powered rifles? It was an easy decision to decide to go.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

The General had lent the boys a small SUV to get to the site, since the roads were rough and rocky, and no place for a classic car. And it was the very definition of remote, a combination of red rock hills and fine, shallow sand. The incubi would emerge from a spot three quarters of the way down a narrow gorge, and the hunters had long since scoped out the best spot from which to pick off the demons, a rocky promenade atop the other side of the gorge. As they drove up to it, Dean wondered if the "road" leading up to it had been used by anyone since the last incubus hunt there.

Only one corner of the ledge was wide enough for cars, so Dean ended up parking backed up to the edge between a Ford F-250 with a bumper sticker of a kid peeing on the words "gun control" and a Dodge Ram with a custom grill that probably cost as much as the rest of the truck put together. A large Chevy Silverado so modified it was virtually a monster truck came bouncing up next. Its tires were massive, and it sported a headlight bar, a pushing grill, and a stereo they could crank up loud enough to be heard five miles away, that is, if you could hear it over the souped-up engine.

The five hunters they met up with matched their vehicles, in a way. Bo had a mullet that curled on top. Bowser (no other name given) had an impressive overbite and a braying laugh. Charlie was bald and shifty and drank four beers during the time it took them to set up their equipment, but his hands were rock steady. And TJ, the owner of the biggest truck, had the most dramatic farmer's tan Dean had ever seen, including a hat line across his forehead. He also had a truck bed full of weapons and forty-ounce beers, which he called "foddies."

But they certainly knew their stuff. After rowdy greetings full of back slaps and crude humor all around, easily including Sam and Dean in their rough camaraderie, the hunters efficiently set up some really fine equipment. It was nice enough to make the Winchesters both impressed and slightly jealous.

"I'm the third generation of Redding to do this," Bo explained. "Only the Campbells did it longer, but they don't have anyone coming this year."

He pointed out the fissure, easily visible through a scope. With the calm weather, it would be easy. "Just wait until you can see an outline that looks a little like a person and drill 'em anywhere." He gave a wide grin. "Like huntin' prairie dogs."

Sam was on watch when the first wispy form appeared, and soon the gorge was ringing with gunshots. The Winchesters had to admit that it was pretty fun. These ghost-like beings would slip out of the fissure in the rock, shaped like a flame on a match, then elongate, solidify, and begin to sprout the beginnings of arms and legs. This was as far as they got before they were peppered with bullets and exploded into a cloud of dust. It was very satisfying.

The shooting went on for a little over half an hour, and they watched another 20 minutes to make sure that no more were coming. Then they decided to, in Charlie's words, "SALE-uh-BRATE."

There was beer. Tequila. Alabama blasting from TJ's stereo. Then there were fireworks. Then M-80's. And when Charlie pulled out an honest-to-goodness hand grenade with a manic grin, Sam and Dean decided simultaneously that it was time to get out of there.

"TJ, you gotta move your truck, man," called Dean, trying to be heard over at least the third go-round of Why, Lady, Why.

"Jus' sec, jus' a sec," slurred the other man. "Watch thi'." He stood, legs set wide to adjust for his wobbling, and grabbed his belt on each side of his oversized belt buckle. "I have two guns; one for each of ya," he quoted, then laughed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "One more. I'm yer huckleberry."

Now, Dean adored the movie Tombstone, and Doc Holliday was probably his favorite character, but he was ready to get out of there. The situation had moved from fun to stupid to dangerous. "I can move it for you a sec, dude."

"Nah, I'm coming'. Nobody drives my truck but me."

Dean could respect that, so he got in the SUV and started it up. He couldn't wait to get back to his Baby. "Wow, these guys like blowing shit up," he said to Sam, as the other's eyes got really big. TJ was in his truck, where he had been revving the engine just to be obnoxious. He'd put it into gear, but hadn't paid attention, and it lurched forward, directly toward the Winchesters' SUV. There was literally nowhere to go to get out of the way. It smashed into the front of the little SUV, which went careening over the side. TJ's pick-up barely missed following it down.

TJ jumped out of his truck, nearly losing his balance. He and the other remaining hunters stared at the edge of the cliff in horror and awe. "Dude, you just killed John Winchester's kids," gasped Bowser, voice full of fear. "I'm outta here."

"Where are you going?" asked Bo, mouth still hanging open.

"Tibet."

In five minutes, the rock shelf was empty.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Dean woke up slowly and painfully, but without disorientation. He remembered every second of watching the stupid truck jump forward like a cat leaping on its prey, hearing the crunch, and watching the slip of the rock recede. He even remembered turning toward Sam as there was a second, much louder, screeching and crunch.

He hadn't expected to wake up at all.

I'm upside down, he thought. He turned his head automatically to check his brother. Sam was hanging limply, his dangling arms hiding his face from Dean's view. "Sammy?" he called, pulling his own arms down toward his chest. Damn! Left wrist at least sprained, possibly broken. With his good arm, he reached over and pushed Sam's arm out of the way to check the pulse in his neck. It took too long to find, then it was thready at best, weak and fluttering under Dean's fingers. But it was definitely there. He needed to get a better look at Sam, figure out how badly he was hurt, and they needed to call for help.

There was no way to brace himself and undo his seatbelt with only one arm, so Dean tried to wiggle out from underneath the seatbelt. It didn't work, so he resigned himself to falling and pushed the button, curling as far forward as possible. He grunted as he landed heavily on his back. Then he froze as the SUV groaned and slid a few inches down. From his awkward position on the roof, Dean looked around to see where exactly they'd ended up, but there was just a rock face up against the side windows, and the windshield was nothing but cracks and impossible to see through.

Moving as little as possible, Dean kicked the windshield, and then again, harder. With the second kick, it broke into a couple thousand pieces. Through the hole, he could now see down the gorge. They were wedged partway down, though he couldn't see how far. He tried to remember if any of the compensation trucks had tow hooks, and wondered if they were too far down for them to reach.

A soft groan caught his attention as he was carefully leaning out the space where the windshield had been to try and see around them. "Whoa, whoa, Sam wait – " He was too late. Sam had automatically clicked the button of his seatbelt. Dean reached to slow his fall, but he'd forgotten his bad arm. Sam landed on his head, and both men laid there, panting, for a moment. "Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

With just those two words, Dean could tell that Sam was not okay. "I hurt my arm, but that's all. Look, we're only eight or ten feet from the bottom of this thing. If you have a minute or two to rest, you think you can jump down? I don't trust this thing not to fall even farther. But you gotta tell me how bad you're hurt."

Sam breathed quietly for a moment, curled up on himself. "M' head. But I can jump down." The words were soft and slurred.

"Yeah, you sound fine. Let me see." Metal whined.

"I don't th-think we have time for triage," mumbled Sam. "You go first, so you can help me not faceplant when I land."

Dean didn't like it, but it made a certain amount of sense. "How about you go first, so I can be sure you're ready to go?"

"That doesn't make any sense, De'. I swear I'll be right behind you." Sam spoke slowly, but the words still weren't well enunciated.

"Look at me," demanded Dean, not liking how Sam was dropping the ends of his words. Sam tilted his head just enough that his eyes were visible under his hair. How slowly and carefully Sam moved was another piece of the puzzle. Dean reached with his good hand and pushed Sam's hair out of the way, then grabbed his chin to keep him from turning away. "Focus a second, Sam." The cloudy hazel eyes sharpened.

"I'm okay, Dean. I sh-swear I can follow you. It won't be fun, but it will be fine." Sam sounded determined, for all he was clearly struggling. Dean stared at his expression for one more minute, then nodded. How much choice did they really have anyway?

"You jump down as soon as I call, okay? Do not make me have to figure out a way to climb back up."

"Be careful, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. He wasn't the one who was obviously concussed. But instead of replying, he just made his way slowly and gingerly to the edge of the windshield. Then he turned around and hung his legs down. He could only hold himself with one hand, so his body swayed a bit as he hung from the SUV and something creaked, so he quickly let go.

The landing didn't go as Dean had planned. He landed softly on his feet, but with everything else he was focusing on, he hadn't realized that his ankle was hurt. With a cry, he crumpled. Everything went gray for a moment. He didn't quite lose consciousness, but it was a near thing.

" – n? Dean! Answer me!"

"I'm okay, Sam. I just didn't realize I dinged my ankle." Dinged. Yeah. Dean fought to keep the pain out of his voice. With effort that left him sweating and swearing, Dean crawled a couple feet to the rocky side of the gorge and hauled himself to his feet. "Okay. Okay, Sam. Jump down."

There was a longer pause than Dean liked, then Sam's feet and legs appeared out of the space where the windshield had been. He jumped down unceremoniously, without turning around or hanging from the SUV to make the fall lower. And his landing was nearly as bad as Dean's. It looked like a good landing – on his feet, bending his knees to absorb the impact, but then he just kept bending, ending up sort of tumbling to the ground. Cursing and hobbling, Dean hurried the best he could to Sam's side.

His little brother's eyes were tightly closed and he was curled up on his side again. "Okay, Sammy. Lemme see." He glanced up at the SUV above their heads and winced. It looked like it was wedged too tightly to move, and their movements inside it hadn't made it fall any farther, but it was still nerve wracking to have a couple ton vehicle hanging above them. But he wasn't about to make Sam move (more) until he'd at least seen what injuries he had.

There was a bleeding gash and a large bump just below Sam's right temple. He must have hit it on the window. Sam hissed when Dean touched it and Dean winced in sympathy. He'd had head wounds that made you dizzy from even the lightest touch. "Sorry. Sorry. I know." There wasn't a good way to bandage it, and the bleeding was already slowing, so Dean contented himself with wiping away the blood that had already run down Sam's face and neck, noting that Sam's collar was dark with blood too. Moving the collar to the side didn't show any more injuries, so it must have been from the head wound.

"Sammy, listen. This is important. We gotta move out from under the truck, for safety and so TJ and those guys can see us. They're probably worried we're dead. So I need to know: you hurt anywhere else?" Sam's face scrunched and he blinked as if it were a struggle to interpret Dean's words. "Sammy, stay with me. Where does it hurt?"

"Head," he answered so quietly Dean barely heard him.

"Yup, I know about that one. Where else?"

Sam thought about that for a minute, then said, "Nowhere?"

"That a question or a statement, Einstein? I need to know if you're okay to stand up and walk. We're kinda under the sword here." And what exactly will I do if he can't walk? I can hardly walk myself. I can't carry or drag him anywhere with only one good foot and one good arm.

Sam's answer was to push himself up to his knees, where he swayed. "I got it," he said, probably talking to himself as much as Dean. He turned a slightly murky gaze to his big brother. "Where are you hurt? I know I h-heard you…"

"My ankle," grumbled Dean, not wanting to get into an argument. "And I can't use my arm. But it doesn't matter. We have to get out of here."

Sam nodded, rose to his feet, and promptly went back down to his knees to puke.

"Dammit. Dammit!" Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, feeling useless, unable to hold Sam up or get him out from under the danger.

"Okay now," said Sam finally, obviously feeling the danger. He rose again and wobbled forward. Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and limped along with him. They both helped each other, since Dean kept Sam steady, and Sam supported Dean's bad ankle. It was still hellish, and they only went about fifteen feet before stopping. "Let me – let me wrap your ankle, Dean, and maybe your arm too."

"Dude, your eyes are closed. How exactly are you going to do that?"

Sam defiantly opened his eyes. And promptly heaved again.

"Breathe. Just breathe. Don't worry about taking care of me. I'm fine. You just close your eyes and breathe for a few. Those morons will figure out how to get us out of here. We just have to be patient."

With Dean helping him as much as possible, Sam leaned back to rest his head against the side of the gorge. He was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, regulating his breathing the way they'd been taught. It was a good idea, but actually made Dean more worried, because Sam was tough as nails, and for him to need a pain management technique said he was really hurting.

"You sure you're not hurt anywhere else? No, don't open your eyes or nod of anything. Just thumbs up or down. Hurt anywhere else?"

Sam's right hand rose to hover over his lower chest. Understanding, Dean carefully pulled Sam's top shirt to the side and tugged his t-shirt up. He sucked in a breath. There was a fist-sized bruise that was darkening even as he looked at it. That had to hurt like a bitch. He ghosted a hand over it, and it was warmer than the rest of Sam's skin, and just the touch had his pallor going whiter. That wasn't good. It could indicate internal bleeding.

Dean shaded his eyes and looked up toward the ridge they'd shot from. It protruded enough that he couldn't see anything on top of it, but was hoping to see some sign of activity – people looking over the edge, or lowering ropes, or something. He couldn't see a thing and sighed. Maybe they going around to the end of the canyon and coming in that way. From driving in, Dean would guess the end was only about a mile away, maybe even less.

"Wish I could've gotten the first aid kit out of the truck," Dean complained. "But I didn't dare crawl all the way to the back."

"Got something better," breathed Sam, eyes still closed. He dug in his pocket and pulled out Dean's cell. "Saw it lying there before I jumped out."

"You are not completely useless after all," grinned Dean.

"You should write greeting cards."

"Smart ass." Dean didn't have any of the numbers of the guys they'd been hunting with, but he had the number the General had called from. He had exactly one bar, so he dialed. It rang once and dropped. He tried again and it didn't even ring this time. He kept trying, lightheartedly complaining to Sam between every attempt, wanting his brother to stay awake and stay calm. "Don't know why they don't stick a cell tower out here, man. What if those incubus guys wanna phone home? Hell probably has a great network, then they get topside and zilch, nothing. Maybe that's why it's so easy to plug 'em. They're shocked to lose service."

"Consecrated ground," said Sam softly, startling Dean a little. He'd been silent since producing the phone.

"What's that?"

"I wonder if-if anybody's trying getting the ground c-consecrated where the incubi come ou-out. If consecr-crated iron rounds kill 'em…" Sam trailed off, out of breath.

"Consecrated ground should stop up the hole? We should ask the General about that. Or Bobby. That is, if the good ol' boys are willing to give up their potshot hunt." Dean had tried the General twice while he spoke. "But you should suggest it." Seeing Sam was looking at him, Dean peered into his eyes. They were still murky, unfocused. He was surprised Sam could even talk, much less make a decent guess about a monster hunt. Sam clumsily pushed him back.

"Get outta my face, dude."

"Yeah, say that a little clearer and I might." In opposition to his words, Dean leaned back. "I need to go farther down to get enough signal."

"Okay." Sam started to get up, but Dean nudged him. "Whoa, there. No need for both of us to go. You just stay here on your feather bed like a good little princess."

"How 'bout you stay and I'll go since I have two good legs?" Sam looked down at Dean's right foot. He'd pulled his boot off, and there was no way he'd be able to get it back on again with the horrific amount of swelling. At this point, he'd probably have to cut his sock off.

"Sure. If you can catch this." Dean tossed the SUV's keys that he'd automatically stuck in his pocket. Sam dove toward them, missed badly, and curled forward like he was going to puke again. Feeling guilty, Dean quickly reached across his body and steadied him. He figured the pain the jarring caused his other arm just penance for the trick gone wrong. "Shit. Sorry. Didn't mean to hurt you." But I made my point.

"No worries. You win. I won't go without you." Sam swiped the keys off the ground on the second try. "Good thing you t-took these."

Dean gave Sam a scowl both for his twisted logic and mockery about the keys. "I will go. You will stay."

"Nope." Sam braced himself against the rocks and rose to his feet, then had the temerity to offer a hand up to Dean.

"What the Hell, dude? You can't see straight. Why won't you take care of yourself one goddamn time?"

"I can't see straight, but I can walk. You can see for me," said Sam with annoying equanimity, though his trembling hands diminished the impact of his determination somewhat. "And the best thing that we can do to help ourselves is call for help. Cuz I'm not sure those guys – " he waved a hand in the wrong direction, "are even coming."

Waste time arguing? Walk away knowing he'll probably try to follow? Or just give in? Dean debated for all of three seconds before standing up without help, thank you very much.

Dean quickly discovered he couldn't put any weight on his ankle at all and had to concede and lean on Sam at least somewhat. For his part, Sam shuffled along slowly, steadier than Dean had thought he'd be, but his eyes were closed again and he had his head hanging forward. He looked a little green. Dean was feeling a little green himself, as every hop sent agony through his bad ankle and arm. He distracted himself by muttering out loud what he was going to do to TJ once they got out of here.

"—both of his arms, then throw him off a cliff. And if he's still alive after that, I'm taking one of those stupid oversized exhaust pipes off his loud-ass truck and sticking it –" he was cut off as Sam tripped. And Dean, adding to his big brother failures of the day, couldn't catch him. In fact, it was all he could do to land next to him instead of on top of him. To make it even worse, it took him a few minutes to regain his composure enough to roll Sam on his back to check on him.

Sam wasn't unconscious, but he wasn't fully aware, either. He must have been running on fumes and the fall was the last straw. Those hazel eyes were open but not tracking Dean.

Dean looked up almost in supplication, and realized he could see the top of the hunting ridge from their new position. The completely empty and barren ridge. Hands now trembling in anger as well as pain, exhaustion, and worry, he awkwardly maneuvered so Sam's head rested on his thigh and tried the General again. C'mon. Two bars is enough.

"Dean?! Is that you? Bo said you and Sam drove off the cliff by accident and were dead." The older man sounded equal parts shocked and relieved.

"Yeah, we're alive. TJ was so drunk he put his truck into drive instead of reverse and pushed us over the cliff. Then apparently they all ran instead of checking to see if we were ACTUALLY DEAD!" Dean was yelling by the end of his sentence.

The General ran through an impressive array of cursing for a few minutes, then said, "I'll send help to you. How bad you hurt?"

"Sam's head's busted open and he might have some internal bleeding. I have a messed-up ankle and arm. And we have to fucking climb out of the SUV and walk for a signal because they abandoned us."

"Stay put, son. I'll get help to you as fast as possible. You're out in the sticks, so it may take a bit to get to you, but I'm on it. Hang in there."

Dean ground his teeth. Stay put? Hang in there? What did he think they were going to do? "General? Don't send TJ. If I see him right now, I'll shoot him in the face."

"Understood."

They not only stayed put, they didn't move from their spot for the next two hours waiting for help. The General called twice more to check on them, but Dean didn't say more than a grunted, "we're fine" when he did. He held the man partially responsible for their predicament, since he'd sent them off with the crazy hunters. No wonder Dad hadn't ever taken them along.

Sam woke up, on and off. He sat up next to Dean with a little help and dozed there. At one point, Dean jerked awake at the sharp sound of rock hitting rock, not having realized he'd fallen asleep. He was pissed at himself because he should have been able to keep alert. "We throwing rocks now, Sammy?"

"Scaring away a coyote," was the response, words running together.

"Bet you couldn't hit it right now if you wanted to."

"I aimed for it to make sure I didn't hit it," said Sam, a smile in his voice even with the slurring and exhaustion. "Let's have a contest and see who's a better shot with our left hands."

Dean's left wrist was so swollen his fingers had started turning purple. "Dirty cheater."

"Learn' fro' th' bes'." Sam was losing his ability to finish words again, and Dean was getting more worried than he'd care to admit. Either it was a pretty good concussion, or Sam was bleeding out internally and it was messing with his coherency.

Dusk had fallen and Dean also worried about the temperature falling soon. He considered calling the General back to ask for an ETA on the rescue when he heard the blessed sound of a car engine. One set of headlights, then another appeared at the end of the gorge, then drove right into it, stopping just shy of two rocks that jutted up from the ground like giant caltrops, maybe 20 meters away. Figures jumped out of the vehicles and gravel crunched beneath booted feet as people Dean couldn't make out in the glare of the headlights headed toward the brothers.

"Boys?" called a voice that was so familiar that Dean wanted to melt with relief.

"Right here, Bobby. We need to get Sam some help. He hit his head and has some internal bleeding on his right side."

"Dean's hur' too," slurred Sam.

"We got enough guys here to help you both." Bobby gestured to the two men right behind him. "Ira and Abram are paramedics. We brought an ambulance."

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Both of the Winchesters were released from the hospital the just two days later, into Bobby's care. Sam's internal bleeding hadn't been terribly serious, but he would have the hematoma for a long time. He did have a significant concussion, and was warned to expect headaches and dizziness for some time yet. Dean's wrist was broken in two places, and his ankle in one. He was given a walking boot, a sling, a wrist cast, and a whole lot of painkillers. Both were told to rest up and not do anything strenuous for at least 2-3 weeks, preferably more like 6-8. They were polite enough not to roll their eyes in front of their doctors.

Bobby was the hero of it all. He felt a little guilty because he'd lied about being out of the country because he didn't want to be around the young group of hunters (that he referred to as "the hyenas") without any of the old guard there (meaning John, Rufus, or the General), though he'd have gone if he'd known Sam and Dean would be there. By the time the Winchesters were discharged, Bobby had managed to get the SUV recovered and had gotten their weapons safely out of it. He'd also driven the Impala to his place. And he'd called Pastor Jim to consecrate the ground, as Sam had suggested, to see if they could prevent the need for the repeated incubus hunts. Finally, he dragged a subdued TJ into their hospital room to apologize. TJ had two black eyes and a broken nose.

"You're lucky it was Bobby who got to you," growled Dean. "I'd have broken a couple bones or thrown you off a cliff."

"Me too," added Sam. "And our dad would have killed you."

TJ turned milk white and made a very hasty departure. And the boys let Bobby take them to his house for a little rest and recovery.

Both looked like death warmed over, and they argued about taking their pain medications every single day, but they'd survived not just the hunt, but the hunters. And as Bobby listened to them bicker, he allowed himself one moment of weak-kneed relief.

"Gimme that. You're not supposed to read yet," Dean was bitching.

"If I have to watch one more of your stupid movies, my brain is going to rot," complained Sam right back.

"You're just afraid you're going to start growing some good taste, Sammy."

"It isn't good taste you're growing, Dean. Seriously. When is the last time you showered?"

"You shower with two casts on opposite sides of your body! Unless you want to come in with me and help me reach my – "

"DEAN!"

Yup. They were going to be just fine.