Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

Emily's POV:

I believe this is what they call the fifth circle of Hell. I could be wrong, but I'm not usually. Of course, it's my own fault that I'm here, or at least that's what my father would say. If only I'd studied a little harder, partied a little less, cared a little more…well, then I'd be doing my first year of residency at John's Hopkins. Okay, that's pushing it, but still, I could have qualified for some hospital that at least had a decent trauma center. Instead, I'm stuck in Bumblefuck, Nevada sewing together some guy's scalp. And the sad thing is I'm glad to do it. This is the most exciting case I've had since a kid walked through a plate glass door last week.

"There you go," I say, placing the last bit of tape over the gauze. "A whole eight stitches." He smiles at me and shakes his head, clearly embarrassed.

"Eight stitches. I guess I'm lucky to be alive." We both laugh as his fingers gingerly brush the bandage.

"You were a real trooper," I say in keeping with the sarcastic sentiment. I pull a green sucker out of my pocket and hand it to him. "For being so brave." He takes it and says thank you, sweet subtle laughter still rolling from his throat. He looks up at me from under waves of dark hair and I can see that even his eyes are smiling. And that makes me smile.

"Paper work's done. Signed, sealed, delivered," I hear as a man enters the exam room. He stops short when he sees me and his face quickly lightens from a concerned scowl to a painfully flirtatious, dare I say down right arrogant, smile. No, smirk. "Hello," he says in a voice to match the look.

"My brother, Dean. Dean, this is Dr. Reynolds." He shakes my hand and I'm surprised at how cool his skin feels. Out here everything's hot most of the time, everyone. Half my patients tend to be victims of either heat stroke or exhaustion.

Almost as soon as his brother speaks, Dean turns his head and his expression shifts again. Looking at Mr. Clage – what did he say his name was? Sam? – the worried scowl returns. It remains when he glances back at me, clearly now seeing me for what I truly am, nothing more than a doctor. "You're done already?"

"Nothing to it," Sam says as he rises from the exam table, the white paper crinkling under him.

"Stitches?" he asks. Sam nods. "How many?"

"Eight."

He lets out a sort of scoff, half laugh, half sigh, and his face relaxes a bit. Then he turns to me and looks me dead in the eyes. "Concussion?"

I clear my throat awkwardly – God, that sounded gross – and avert my eyes. Something about his stare is simply too much to take in. His eyes, the worry and fear…the hope. I feel like I should laugh, there's no reason to be so concerned over such a non-injury. But what I really want to do is hug him, hold him close, tell him everything's all right. "Just a slight one," I say. Then, letting my eyes venture back to his, "He's fine."

"Check it out," Sam says from behind, mouth full of lime sucker. "I even got a lolly pop." He smiles big and bright and I can tell, even after knowing these men mere minutes, that that look is likely the best medicine and quickest cure for a guy in Dean's position. Without warning I'm overcome by a sudden urge to call my younger brother, whom I haven't talked to in months.

"You're such a friggin' fruit loop," he says, shaking his head back and forth, an amused and relieved expression on his face. "Hey, how's the old guy?"

It takes me a minute to figure out that he's talking to me. "Oh," I say simply, "I don't know."

"Crazy bastard, never should have been on the road in the first place."

"Dean, the guy could be dead."

"Yeah, well," he says turning to his brother, "so could you."

"Please, I got hit by a chunk of wood. I'm fine, right doctor?"

I nod in agreement while making some final notations on his chart, ones I don't really have to make but do so just to look busy, look like I still have business being in here. "He's fine."

I look up only briefly and see Dean's face turn a shade of red. "It wasn't a chunk of wood, Sammy, it was a freaking two-by-four."

"Yeah, but it was only the tail end of it, not like there was a lot of force." A two-by-four? I feel my eyebrow arch in curiosity and immediately try to will it back down. Ever since one of my colleagues pointed out, amid a tumble of giggles I might add, that I talk with my eyebrows, I've been a little too guarded and aware of my expressiveness. But I can't help but ask.

"What exactly happened out there?" I only knew the pertinent facts, an elderly man wrapped his car around a pole. One of the attendings, of course, was in charge of treating him. My patient had been whacked in the head by a piece of wood thrown from the vehicle during impact.

Dean sighs long and hard, but I can't tell if it's because he doesn't want to tell me, or he does, he just doesn't want it to seem like he does. "This old guy in a pick up ran a red and, I don't know, lost control I guess."

"He crashed right in front of us," Sam interrupts.

"All the shit he had in back of his truck went everywhere when another car hit him. And a huge," he emphasizes while eyeing Sam, "piece of wood took Sammy out."

"It didn't take me out. And it's Sam."

"Yeah, whatever," he says, a hint of that overly confident grin returning. "You hit the ground hard, dude."

"What?" His tongue and lips smack green as he speaks. "Are you kidding me? I've been hurt worse by you."

"What's that supposed to mean? Like I'm not capable of hurting you? What I'm so weak and pathetic that I couldn't take you on?"

"You said it," he says, his stained lips curling into a Cheshire grin, "not me."

"You wanna find out just how much damage I can do to you?"

Sam clears his throat loudly and looks from Dean to me, clearly signaling him that I'm still in the room. He spins around and chuckles lightly, almost embarrassed, I think, and his eyes fall down and away from me as he says sheepishly, "We're just goofing around."

I smile, perhaps a bit broader than intended, and raise my eyebrows, not caring if they're overly expressive or not. "I'll bet," I say, and he looks up at me immediately, catches my eyes and seems put at ease. He returns my smile, but this time it feels genuine, not cocky. "I have brothers," I tell him, though I'm not sure why. "Older and younger. I know how you boys can be."

Our eyes stay locked for only a fleeting moment before he shakes his head slightly and returns his attention to Sam. "Doesn't matter," he says under his breath, more to himself, I think, than anyone else. "Point is," he locks eyes with his brother, "You could have been killed."

Sam pulls the nearly spent sucker out of his mouth and holds Dean's gaze. "So could you," he says, and I realize that the conversation has taken a much more earnest turn. "You realize that if we hadn't stalled, we would have been right there, right in the middle of that intersection, right in his path. Going as fast as he was, loaded down with all that weight, man he would have totally plowed over us." He makes a fist and punches his open palm, a loud sweaty smack, for emphasis. His dark hair bobs back and forth as he shakes his head, wearing the kind of smile a man wears when he realizes just how lucky he is. "Good thing that hunk of metal crapped out when it did."

"Hey," he says, seeming genuinely offended. "Do not refer to my baby as a hunk of metal. What gratitude. You just said she saved your life."

"Actually, I said she saved your live. Driver's side would have been completely demolished. No more Dean."

"No more Impala," he says softly, a dreamy and ominous tone to his voice. Then color floods his cheeks again and his eyes focus once more. "Still, you'd be hurting. So she saved your sorry ass too."

"Yeah," he says before biting the remaining candy and quickly crunching it to bits. "Spared by an overheated engine. Would that be considered divine intervention or just plain luck?" He looks to me. "What do you think, doc?"

I take a moment to answer, my eyes moving back and forth, from one brother to the other. "I think it's a sign you need to pay more attention to how much coolant's in your car." Dean's face takes on an almost pained expression, as though I were questioning his parenting skills, which really I suppose I was. I flip shut the metal chart and reach into my pocket, come out with a red sucker, and hand it to Dean. "Here ya go," I say lightly, and with a wink, "you look like you could use it."

A/N: I know, not even close to being the best chapter in the world, but you can feel free to review it anyway!