Disclaimer : I don't own anything. Swear.

A/n : This is un-betaed so all mistakes are mine.

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Some Things Never Change

He hurts all over.

His muscles are on fire and his arm feels like someone's ripped from his shoulder, not to mention the gash on his forehead throbbing like a bitch. It so sucked to be him right now.

His brown eyes are on the motel's puke-green, peeling off wallpaper. Dean's criteria certainly wasn't the color when he chose this motel, because it's tearing his already aching head into two distinct parts ... he can't remember where Dean went.

He searches his memory and recalls a one-sided conversation about getting some supplies. Right. To patch him up. He's sure the gash on his head requires stitches - four or five, he's sure. He still can't remember when Dean left. Did he say when he was going to come back? Maybe not.

He's lying on some rough material, a sorry excuse for a rug, on an equally hard bed, and wasn't that doing wonders to his back!

Sam sighs, wondering how much longer Dean will be ... his head hurts and he doesn't feel so good.

He's thirsty, his throat is parched and when he tries to get up, the wallpaper moves - it moves! And Sam lies back down almost immediately. Bummer.

This is my life, he thinks miserably, crappy hotels, crappy jobs, crappy supernatural. How unfair. They were supposed to hunt these things. And why did these things exist anyway? Whose fault was it? Should he blame himself or Dad? 'Cause he'd never balme Dean. Nothing was Dean's fault, he only tried to make things better.

The questons made his head hurt more and he decided to stop before he started pondering over the maning of life, 'cause he was very close.

And that goddamn wallpaper! There was something about it that was pissing Sam off. Whose wallpaper was it and how come they had to put it in the room he was in? Was it a conspiracy? Against him? A Mission To kIll Sammy By Wallpaper Method? That made him laugh. As if Dean would let them.

And maybe he was closer to the meaning of life than he thought.

There it was - ugly green staring back at him, undaunted. God, he hated it! He needed to get up and rip it off. Now. And it moved again!

Sam sighs and pushes off the covers. Some things never change.

He wanted his brother.

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Dean stumbled up the stairs till he reached the little room - 67.

His ankle was probably twisted but Sammy was far more hurt. His ankle could wait. Besides he'd had much worse.

When he pushed the door open, he froze in his steps, shocked at the sight before him. Sam was standing, trying to walk!

Dean launched himself across the room, grabbing hold of his almost-falling brother with a loud, audible, "Oof! Sam!"

Surprisingly, Sam turned into the impromtu embrace and closed his eyes, "I don't like it."

Dean walked them both to the bed, seating Sam down firmly on it, "Like what, Sam?"

Sam shrugged, offering him a lopsided grin, "Dunno."

Dean stared for a moment, jaw dropping open before he shook his head and snorted, "You are wierd. Lie down, Sammy. I gotta stitch your forehead."

Sam's face fell, but he obeyed, "Four?"

"Maybe, Sam. Now, why don't you lie quietly till I finish, huh? You're on morphine and you don't want to say things that you'd regret later."

"Okay."

Sam lay back and concentrated hard on the freckles on his big brother's face, which were suddenly very close.

Some things never changed - crappy hotels, Dean, green wallpapers, Dean, bad jobs, Dean ...

And it was a good thing.

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A/n : Jesus, where did that come from? Review!!