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

Shit, Dean thinks idly as the rocky terrain beneath his feet gives way to nothingness, this is so not going to end well.

He can't help the tortured scream that's ripped from his lungs as his left knee crumbles in a blinding flash of pain, freefall halted before his body can prepare any kind of compensatory tuck and roll. He's not even quite sure how it happened; one minute he's chasing what they're pretty sure is a Harpie, the next minute he's on the ground, trying to simultaneously curl around his injured limb while keeping it perfectly still. He clenches his teeth, biting back the threat of a bilious appearance of this morning's breakfast burrito while taking deep shaky breaths that end in strangled half sobs.

Once the initial threat of passing out has become less of a reality, his senses allow him to take stock of his situation. He's lying on his left side, face pressed into the loamy dirt of the forest floor, left knee bent and clasped tightly between his hands as if he can hold it together with sheer will. Because he's pretty sure that loud "Pop" wasn't a good thing.

"Son of a …." The rest of his favored catch-all phrase is diluted by a quick inhalation and a muffled groan when he tries to change positions.

The rustling of the underbrush barely registers until a familiar voice calls his name from somewhere above him.

"Dean!" Sam's voice comes closer as he continues to call out until Dean can finally muster up the necessary voice to guide his brother to his whereabouts.

"Sammy," he grinds out, his voice like gravel.

Sam breaks through the foliage, barely pulling himself back from careening over the same edge that sent Dean to his current predicament.

"Oh, shit, man! You okay?" Sam asks as he stutters down the embankment in a controlled fall; the question is an automatic given their line of work and it's popped out of his mouth before he even registers that he's thought it.

Arriving at his brother's side, he takes a sweeping glance over Dean, notes the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the rapid breathing, and the utter stillness of his brother. Sam knows to be most afraid when his brother is quiet and still. "Alright. It's okay." he says quietly, not sure which of them he's comforting. The lack of obvious blood, combined with Dean's coherence (if you consider Dean's quiet mumblings for Sam not to fucking touch him coherent) settles Sam's nerves at least a bit and allows him to make it through to the second level of triage.

"Leg?" he asks, zeroed in the source of Dean's agony.

Dean nods, eyes still squeezed shut. "Knee", he gasps, still working to get his breathing under control.

"Okay, let me see." He pries Dean's hands away from his knee, then gently but swiftly rolls him onto his back before he can protest. The motion threatens to take Dean over the edge of consciousness and his hands scramble before digging into the moist earth beneath him while his back arches in an attempt to get away from the pain.

Sam makes short work of examining Dean's knee, having to slice through the leg of his jeans to get a clear view of the rapidly swelling joint. They've both had enough injuries to know when something's bad and this one sure isn't good. Dean's knee jiggles under Sam's probing fingers like a piece of well-cooked spaghetti, too much motion in almost every direction. Shit.

Dean visibly relaxes when Sam stops poking at his injured joint and is able to make eye contact with Sam through the crack of one eyelid. "How bad?" he asks, although he already suspects.

"Hospital," Sam confirms.

Dean takes a few steadying breaths before making a belated plea to Sam. "Come on Sammy, no hospital." He gives a poor imitation of a grin, adding, "It's just a leg. I've got another one."

Sam's Bitch Face implies the level of stupidity that is his brother, but he decides not to argue the point. Shotgun shuts his cakehole and Dean's not driving anywhere. Besides, Dean didn't say anything about an Urgent Care. Sam does love his loopholes. "Fine," he says, with an eye roll.

Once he's garnered Sam's promise, Dean extends his arms and plants his right foot, allowing Sam to pull him upright while he does his best to hold his left up off of the ground. Sam quickly gets under his brother's shoulder, wrapping his other arm through his belt loop, offering as much assistance as he can. Before they get situated, however, Dean's left leg reflexively tries to help him balance and the crippling pain almost takes out his other leg. Dean's free arm jerks to Sam's chest, grabbing hold of his shirt and he turns his head into his brother's shoulder, biting back another threatened sob.

"Okay, easy does it," Sam says when they finally begin to make their way back to the Impala. "At least you took the shortcut," he says, drawing Dean's eyes from where he's focused on his footing to the Impala, Dean's "shortcut" down the embankment the more direct route versus the one they'd taken into the woods earlier that morning.

"Of course, Sammy," Dean replies with a shaky smile, "I always know what I'm doing."

It's slower than slow going - Sam thinks there's an inchworm that's actually outpacing them. He guesses he's supporting more than half of Dean's weight (wisely holding his tongue about laying off of the burgers) and the fact that his brother still isn't really talking does nothing to quell the alarm bell's in Sam's head. And so he starts to idly chatter.

Dean considers telling Sam to Shut the fuck up, but Dean's not really listening anyway, brain cells otherwise occupied on more important matters. Don't puke. Right foot. Don't pass out. Hop. Don't puke. Right foot. Don't pass out. Hop.

The brothers give a collective sigh when they finally reach their Knight in Shining Black Armor and Dean drapes himself across the top of the car, as much to layer his girl in kisses as a way to keep himself propped upright and off of his left leg. He doesn't even put up a fuss when Sam ushers him into the back seat, just allows Sam to prop his leg up on a couple of blankets and lays his arms over his face while he commences deep breathing. Sam quickly slides into the driver's seat, glances into the rearview mirror taking in his brother's pasty complexion and sweat-stained T shirt, and high tails it towards the nearest Sam-approved medical facility.

()0()0()0()0()

The Urgent Care is decently busy, but it's amazing how quickly you get attention when you've got a white-faced moaning lump of a brother draped around your shoulder. The fact that Dean's now cursing a blue streak hastens the process even further along, lest the numerous children waiting to be seen for strep throat and ear infections become permanently scarred by his invectives. When one little boy looks up at his mother with wide eyes and asks "Mommy, am I a son of a bitch?", the receptionist makes a beeline to the back and the next thing they know, Dean's being ushered into an exam room.

He makes it through not one but three knee examinations (Sam's managed to find a facility that trains medical students and residents; Dean is not amused) and the poor x-ray technician almost gets punched out after he makes Dean's leg move in directions it really, really doesn't want to go. Probably would have too, if Dean's ass hadn't gotten a shot of some miracle liquid to take the edge off.

Said miracle liquid also provides just enough pain relief that Dean thinks it wouldn't be a bad idea to test out his leg again. He's wrong. His knee folds like an accordion, not taking any of his weight, and his pinwheeling arms latch hold of Sam as he rushes to prevent Dean's inevitable faceplant. Dean's eyes are so wide the whites are almost out of proportion to the iris and pupil while his mouth is open in a silent scream; Sam thinks he may have to give his brother rescue breaths if he doesn't start sucking air pretty soon.

Sam gives him a gentle shake and Dean's breathing slowly comes back in line, a sheen of sweat reforming on his forehead as he deep breaths his way back from the edge of "Oh dear God, what was I thinking?" Dean makes his way back up onto the exam table, assisted heavily by his crutch of a brother, and decides to give his leg the rest of the night off.

And now he's awaiting his discharge paperwork, knee heavily bandaged in an ACE wrap, black knee brace Velcroed in place, and aluminum crutches at his side.

"Alright then, Mr. Hanson," his nurse says, handing over the paperwork for his signature. She reads off of his instruction sheet in a bored monotone voice, "Keep the leg elevated, use Tylenol or Motrin for mild to moderate pain and the Percocet for severe pain," she says, handing over a prescription for said medication, "ice it, no walking on it," she says nodding to the crutches, "and you have an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon in three days."

"Ummm Hummmm," Dean answers noncommittally, signing his release before foisting the clipboard back at the nurse and grabbing his crutches. Sam gives her a reassuring smile, promising that his brother will be on his best behavior.

"Ummm Hummmm," the nurse replies with a raised eyebrow and a stern look over her half-glasses. This isn't her first day on the job.

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

Dean glances longingly at the motel bed, wanting nothing more than to fall into it and forget this day ever happened. He considers just crawling (gingerly) into bed fully clothed, then gets a good look at himself as he crutches past the mirror over the television.

Dirt streaks cover the left side of his face, he's got sweat staining his T shirt around his collar and under his armpits, and his jeans look like they got stuck in a shredder. He hangs his head a little in dismay, then quickly brings it back upright, the pungent stench of his own BO bringing tears to his eyes.

"Dude, lay down!" Sam barks, bringing the rest of their bags into the room. They hadn't been planning to stick around this town, but Dean's leg has made other plans.

"Man, I reek. I need a shower." Dean crutches over to where Sam's slung his bags, pulling out a clean pair of boxers and a relatively fresh T shirt.

The boys have seen their fair share of ick, and Sam agrees that his brother is not wrong on this one. It's just going to be a bit more of a bitch than usual. He takes in his brother's still pale complexion and the white-knuckled grip he has on his crutches. "Need any help?" he asks, not really thrilled with the particular of what that will entail but willing to help his big brother in any way he can.

"Dude. No." Dean knows his brother is just trying to be helpful, but if his leg is anywhere near as bad as those doctors at the Urgent Care place thought it might be, he's going to be in for a world of hurt. And in need of a lot of help from Sam. Which he wants to delay as long as possible.

So he crutches his way into the cramped bathroom, props his crutches just inside the closed door, and holds onto the sink in order to hop over to the tub. He plunks himself down on the edge and carefully removes the brace and the underlying ACE wrap before not so gracefully shimmying his way out of his pants. He has to bite his lip a couple of times, drawing blood, when he has to put even the slightest pressure on his left leg in order to get his jeans off of his right leg. Crap – damn knee feels like a slip and slide.

He swivels himself around to face into the tub and begins cursing again at the lack of anything whatsoever to hold onto. Except the shower curtain. Probably not the best idea. It would be humiliating enough to slip in the shower, but to get strangled by the shower curtain in the process – no thanks. After Sam got done mourning his sorry ass he'd probably die laughing himself to death.

So he gently lowers himself into the tub, stifling a groan as his knee wobbles unsteadily with his position change. He'll swear up, down, and sideways that he took a real shower, but right now he's not sure how that would even be possible. He hunches his shoulders, letting the hot water sluice down his back, while he gives his knee a closer inspection. It's twice the size of his right knee and thankfully appears to have reached its peak, not having changed much from when he got his first glimpse of it at the Urgent Care.

He gets himself as clean as possible without moving his left leg before turning off the water and beginning to dry himself off while still sitting down. He works his right foot under his body, braces his arms against the sides of the tub, and makes a couple of false starts before a ball of dread sinks slowly into the bottom of his gut. How the hell do I get out of here?

As if on speed dial to Dean's brain, Sam's muffled voice floats through the door. "You okay in there?"

Dean's snarky reply dies on his lips when his right leg slips a little with his final attempt, jarring his left just enough to remind him how screwed he is.

"Dean?" Sam's voice has a bit more concern behind it this time and Dean lets his head fall back against the shower liner, resigned now to the fact that he needs Sam's help. Again.

"A little help?" he calls out, resignation tainting his voice as he carefully drapes his towel across his lap. It's not like the brothers haven't been living in each other's pockets for years, but they at least try to keep up some semblance of decency.

Sam cracks the door and directs a "Cristo" in Dean's general direction. Dean gives a half-hearted smile and Sam can't help but notice his brother's pasty complexion, the resigned set of his shoulders, and the utter exhaustion on his face.

Dean fills him in on his current predicament and Sam hastens to his brother's side, braces himself in a wide-legged stance and helps Dean get enough leverage to sit on the side of the tub facing inwards while averting his eyes as the towel makes a few dangerous shifts of its own.

Dean braces himself against his brother while he shimmies his way into his boxers, again letting out a few groans when he puts any kind of pressure on his left leg, then allows Sam to help him turn so he's facing outwards.

Dean's doing his controlled deep breathing at this point and Sam makes short work of getting his brother to his feet in an attempt to get him horizontal in bed for the night. Sam bypasses Dean's crutches, acting in their stead, and Dean all but collapses when his brother deposits him onto his bed, letting out a couple of curses as he works to get his injured leg up on the bed with the rest of his body.

Sam scurries back the bathroom after propping Dean's leg up on a couple of pillows, then quickly and efficiently rewraps his leg with the ACE bandage before strapping the brace back in place. He makes Dean swallow a couple of pain pills and only feels his own shoulders loosen a little as Dean's face loses some of the pain-tinged edges.

As the boys drop off to sleep, it's impossible to know which one of them is thinking I am so screwed the loudest.

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

Dean and Sam are seated in the orthopedic surgeon's exam room, waiting for the doctor to come in for yet another session of poking and prodding.

"Seriously Sam, I don't know how many more people need to feel me up before we get an answer," Dean says from the exam table where he sits with his left leg extended, knee brace overtop of the track pants he's been wearing in lieu of jeans, right leg hanging off the edge of the table, back slumped into the corner of the wall.

"Just one more," says the man who enters the room, introducing himself as Dr. Thomas. He's not quite as big as Sam, but he looks like someone you wouldn't want to mess with. "Alright," he continues, "let's see what we've got here."

Dean's sure the doctor stops just short of rubbing his glands together in glee.

He helps Dean take off the brace as well as the underlying ACE wrap before taking him through some range of motion maneuvers. He "hmmmm's" and furrows his brow during different portions of the exam and Sam can't help but notice that the doctor's expressions mirror the times when Dean either clenches his fists, grinds his teeth, or sucks in a rapid breath.

A tentative attempt at walking is an epic failure as well. As soon as Dean puts even the slightest hint of weight on his injured leg, he has to grab hold of the exam table and take a few quick hops on his right leg to prevent himself from taking a nosedive. The pain is better; the unstable slip and slide sensation, not so much.

"Well, we need to check an MRI," the doctor says after Dean's seated back on the exam table. "I think you've got some significant damage in there and I need to see how bad."

Dean and Sam hope the recently deceased Mr. Hanson's insurance is up to the task.

The doctor hands over the prescription for the imaging study along with a refill of the pain medications. "And we're going to change out the brace. Aimee will be right in and then you guys can get out of here."

True to his word, his medical assistant returns a few moments later and efficiently wraps Dean's knee back up before pulling out an even bigger brace that spans from the top of his thigh to just above his ankle.

"Shit," Sam says to Dean, eyes wide, "what the hell did you do to your leg to deserve that?"

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

"Complete tears of your anterior cruciate and medial and lateral collateral ligaments," says the surgeon at their follow-up office visit a few days later. At Sam and Dean's blank looks, he continues, "There are four ligaments in the knee and yours", he says, pointing to Dean's braced knee, "is hanging on by only one of them right now."

Dean's face blanches as the doctor continues.

"Your knee is very unstable and because of the severity of the injury, I'd like to go in and do surgery sooner rather than later."

"How soon?" Sam asks, speaking up for his brother who's busy trying not to lose his lunch.

The doctor checks the schedule on the computer in front of him, clicking through a couple of screens. "Looks like I had a cancellation Thursday. So in three days?" he asks with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sam throws Dean a quick glance before hurriedly accepting. "He'll be there," he promises. Sam will drag him into surgery himself if he has to. I wonder if that tranquilizer gun is still in the trunk?

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

It actually doesn't take all that much to convince Dean to go under the knife. A couple of well-placed references to "things Dean could easily do when he can no longer hunt" and Sam's intentional bookmarking of websites on "canes and personal assistance devices for the younger population" end up working much better than any tranq gun.

Sam's head snaps out of his hands when the nurse walks into the waiting room and calls for the family of Dean Hanson. He approaches cautiously, fleeting pictures of ventilators, breathing tubes, and CPR flashing across his brain while he considers the words the nurse may have for him. We lost your brother during the surgery. The doctor couldn't save his leg. The damage was too severe – he'll never walk again.

Instead, the nurse gives him a cocked eyebrow and a shake of her head. "That brother of yours sure is keeping us on our toes."

Sam gives a relieved half chuckle, nodding his head even though he's not sure to what she's referring. Her tone of voice makes him think that Dean's probably not trashing the place or having flashbacks to any of their previous hunts.

But still, he's not sure he quite expected this.

As Sam nears the bed where Dean's recovering following his surgery, a slow smile spreads across his face. That can't be…. Is that….? Dean's belting out show tunes. Sam didn't even think Dean knew what show tunes were. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, making no move to hide that fact that he's capturing Dean's oh-so-off-key rendition of "Hair". This is better than Christmas.

"Sammmmmy!" Dean happily calls out, finally noticing his brother who's been standing by the foot of his bed for over five minutes. He beckons Sam up to the head of his bed and when Sam acquiesces, begins to pat his brother's hair in time to his song.

"Hey man," Sam says in his 'don't scare the crazy person' voice as he tries to duck out of his brother's reach. "How you feeling?"

"Grrreeaaaattt!" Dean says, doing his best Tony the Tiger impersonation.

Sam's smile widens, still watching Dean through the video recorder on his phone. Forget Christmas; this is the gift that keeps on giving the whole year!

To Be Continued…