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So when I was looking through old stuff yesterday, I also found this half-finished and decided to finish it


Three fucking weeks stuck on the sofas of dirty motel rooms, and Sam is oddly reminded of catching mono one summer in Nebraska. Their Dad had been on a long job, a good month, so they’d booked out a room and Dad had hunted while Dean stayed at home on Sam-sitting duty. For Sam, it was the best ever summer. He’d met a guy, Mark, at the local school before he’d gotten sick, and they’d made friends. Once he was holed up at the motel he asked Mark to bring round his homework each day. Mark even stayed and finished it with him, since he was struggling a little in his class and Sam could usually coach him a little. Dean wasn’t entirely comfortable with having Mark at the motel room, and he checked and double checked that all their stuff was put away when Dad left every morning, but he saw how Sam perked up each time there was a knock on the door so he kept Sam’s secret from their Dad.

It was everything that every kid, in every school they’ve ever been to, had every day and never thought about. Everything that he cursed Dean and his Dad and the demon, even his Mom, for keeping from him. Days and days of studying, staying in one place, having a friend. It was so fucking normal. The closest to normal he’d ever really experienced. Sucked that he had to have a fever of a hundred and three and a throat that felt like razor blades to get it, but he’d take it nonetheless.

For Dean, Sam suspected, that summer was not so fun. He did an awesome job of looking after Sam, because… well, he was Dean, but he wasn’t as convincing at hiding his itchy feet as he seemed to think he was. Dean was nineteen at the time, not long out of school and relieved as hell about it, just starting to be trained in the bigger stuff by his Dad: leading a hunt, mapping out a plan, sourcing equipment. It wasn’t just about following instructions for Dean anymore. Sam could tell he liked it.

But, hey, Sam was sick, and he knew Dean wouldn’t have left him on his own even if he had begged him too, so Sam tried to ignore Dean’s cabin fever, shut his eyes and pretend that he wasn’t a hunter. Some days it was convincing.

Looking back on that now, Sam feels bad for Dean. He could never have imagined it nine years ago, but now he’s sick of Dean setting off on his own every day, he’s sick of having to patch up Dean’s wounds when he hadn’t been there to defend him, he’s sick of living the hunt vicariously through Dean’s stories. He’s the one with cabin fever. He misses hunting. How times can change.

As soon as he hears the Impala’s engine whirr into motion, just like every day, Sam picks up his crutches and hobbles outside to practice. He’s had the crutches for a while now and he’s getting damn good at them. At first he found it difficult just to co-ordinate his arms and legs enough to walk. Now he can run: strong arms and huge great big shoulders keeping him up as he heaves his legs forward, crutches working as leverage. He’s getting fast. Dean would be impressed, if he’d seen it. He will, soon. Sam is working up to it.

Today he’s trying something a little newer, and when he gets to the park he lays one of the crutches on the ground, leans heavily on the remaining one and begins to hop round the track. This method is considerably less smooth, and it’s not improving quickly, which frustrates Sam. It’s one thing to be able to run, but to hunt, to manage a weapon or even a flashlight, he needs his arms, at least one of them.

So Sam spends the morning circling the track, hobbling and stumbling as he makes painstaking progress.


It’s another week after that before Dean agrees to let him out on a hunt. Dean’s amazed at first, because they’re not fighting right away and Sam isn’t slowed in the slightest on his two crutches. It’s when they’re in an abandoned building and Sam’s manning a flashlight that things get to be a little trickier. As it happens though, Sam’s barely on his feet long enough to embarrass himself. As he plants the foot of his crutch against the floor of what looks like it used to be a ballroom, the wood snaps beneath him and Sam is toppling out through the floor.

The smack of his back on a stone ledge winds him and he lands heavily on his hands and feet before rolling on to his side, groaning.

Above him he can hear Dean swearing and calling his name. His face creases as he pushes his head against the concrete. “Dean?” he manages. “I’m okay.”

“Shit. Shit. God. I’m coming Sammy, okay?”

It isn’t long before Dean finds a way down to the cellar, and right away he has a flashlight on Sam, hefting him on to his legs as he kneels at his side.

“Okay Sammy, okay. What hurts, huh?”

“My uhh-huhhh…”

He blinks, confused at the knotty little pain in his back.



“Sam? Sammy? You okay?”

He’s groaning, slipping down Dean’s chest until Dean catches him firmly by the shoulders.


It’s a teeth-grinding stab at his back. He squeezes his eyes shuts, but tears are beginning to spring up under the lids from the pain.

“Oh God Dean…” he groans.

“It’s dusty. Okay, hey. It’s really dusty.” Dean still got him by the shoulders and is pulling him up. “We need to get you out of here.”


The saddest thing, Sam decides, is the crutch propped up against the door. He’d talked Dean into picking it up on their way back to the car, but motel room light and closer inspection have scuppered any real hopes of using it again anytime soon. His right hand, his strongest and the best counterbalance for his injured left leg, is swollen and bandaged and as good as useless for at least a week. Plus there’s heavy bruising on his back, and Dean is pretty sure his rib is cracked, which is not only awkward for movement, but, he’s learnt, spectacularly painful when he sneezes. Given that they’re nearing the end of April, Sam can’t picture many more productive days hobbling round the track in the park. He sits and watches that crutch for a long time. It’s more a testament to Dean’s generous dosings of painkillers and Benadryl than any kind of acceptance on Sam’s part, when he rolls over on to his stomach and buries his head in the pillow.


The next morning he’s woken up before he’s ready, hoisted into the Impala, and driven down to the local park. Dean props him up with the crutch under his good arm and has him wobbling along down the track, crutch on the same side as his injured leg.

“It’s awkward,” he moans.

“You get used to it.” Dean grins when Sam eyes him. “What you think I thought you just magically got so good at this before? Get back to practicing.”

Sam scrunches up his nose and gives the blossoms on the trees a suspicious glare.

“What if I sneeze?”

“Then I’ll catch you.”

Sam’s totally unbalanced. And it’s frustrating. Oh God, it’s frustrating as hell. He’s done this. He’s been through all this. Now is supposed to be the time for climbing over fences and digging up graveyards and chasing demons.

Oddly though, the whole thing reminds him again of that Nebraskan Summer. Of having one bed for more than two nights running. Of homework and Mark and mono. And he decides that taking a sabbatical isn’t all that bad. As long as there’s someone to share it with.


This is the original prompt, but I've no idea who wrote it. (Feel free to claim it if it's yours!):

I would love some hurting Sammy, like some kind of injury, and then his sneezy allergies attack. *poor Sammy*

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Aww...I love it when they get all injured and stuff (and now I feel bad for being sadistic). Poor Sammy!

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ADORABLE. I have a love of hurt brothers, too. Not quite as much as I adore sneezy brothers. But, hurt, allergic Sam is making my heart pound. Because he's my secret favorite.

I loved this part:

Sam scrunches up his nose and gives the blossoms on the trees a suspicious glare.

“What if I sneeze?”

“Then I’ll catch you.”

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