First off, a very happy birthday to the very awesome si_star_x!

Here's my little present: a birthday!fic, featuring Dean and Sam whump, brotherly bickering, and a wee bit of h/c. Thank you, si_star_x, for being kind and sweet and, in general, awesome. I wish you many, many more years of success and happiness, and hope you'll like this!

Summary: This is one of the many ways a Salt and Burn can go wrong. A.K.A: Dean's just not having a good day.

Warnings: No real spoilers for any season, though I have this set in late s1 in my head. Mild swearing, violence, some blood.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

He's Heavy (But He's Still My Brother)

Dean raises the lit matchstick and grins. "See ya later, sweetheart."

Sam snorts. "Not much of a punchline there, Dean. Losing your touch?"

"Yeah, well, next time you do the digging and I keep look-out, maybe then I'll think of something."

A gust of cold wind blows their way then, and the flame on the matchstick flickers and dies. A blood-curdling wail echoes in the distance, and the cold gathers until they can see their breath as little wisps of white cloud. "Shit, shit," Dean mutters, digging for more matchsticks. Sam hefts his shotgun, and there, right there—

—a blood-drenched figure extending one bony, clawed hand, right over Sam's shoulder—

"SAM!"

Sam swivels, gun raised, but it's too late: the ghost swipes at him, and Sam is thrown back, crashing into Dean. The matchbook flies out of Dean's hand and both of them tumble into the open grave, landing painfully on the skeletal remains of one Mrs. Elizabeth Jacobson.

"Forget it," Dean grunts as he struggles to push Sam's colossal weight off him. "You're on digging duty for the rest of your life."

Predictably enough, the sides of the grave begin to collapse, loose rocks tumbling along with little cascades of silt. Sam rolls off him, firing at the ghost that's leering down at them. They're treated to a little shower of rock salt as the bitch disappears.

"C'mon," Sam grunts as he heaves himself out of the grave and gives Dean a hand. "Let's just burn her and get outta here."

Dean pants for a moment on the ground before pulling what looks like a piece of mandible out of his hair. "Yeah, genius, I kind of got most of the lighter fluid on me. You burn her."

Sam chooses that moment to turn around and give him a full-on bitchface. "Dean, I'm pretty sure you're competent enough not to set fire to yourself—"

"Sam, just. Find the goddamn matchbook first, okay?" Dean drops to all-fours, begins groping around for the damn thing. "And, y'know, I could really use some light here!" he adds loudly.

Sam's still muttering under his breath, but he flashes the torchlight in Dean's direction. "C'mon, c'mon, come on," Dean says. Just how far can the damn thing have fallen, anyway? Maybe the ghost-bitch took it, or something. Dean won't put it past her – it took them ages to discover that she'd been the perpetrator of a century-old massacre of most of her maternal family. She'd been lynched for it, and buried in some obscure grave, which, hey, guess what, again took ages to find its location. Dean'd been kinda ready to commit fratricide himself in the interminable time it took for them to do all this, as Sam-the-Caffeinated-Zombie alternated from laptop to library to Town Hall.

He desisted only because the murder toll was high enough anyway, with every descendant of the people that lynched the woman being slowly and systematically killed.

"How could you not have brought your lighter, Dean?" Sam says, and wow, he's already pitching the whine pretty strong. "I mean, I've never seen it away from your person."

"Yeah, well, maybe that'll stop you from being over-zealous with the laundry next time." Goddamn it. Maybe it did fall into the grave with them? He crawls back to the grave and peers in, impatiently gesturing at Sam to get the frickin torchlight around already. "Y'know, if I want something washed, I'll get it out myself. You don't have to work your mother-hen routine and start clearing my duffel—"

"Right. So it got lost with the laundry. Sure." Dean can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes, the bitch. "And the next time your stuff starts to smell like a toxic waste-dump? Don't come to me."

"I won't," Dean retorts, and a ha! The matchbook's right there, behind the small, unmarked headstone, and Dean reaches for it just as the cold begins to pick up again. "Sam—"

Sam lets loose another round of rock salt but Dean can still hear the ghost cackling. He grabs the matchbook and turns triumphantly, only for the ghost to push him back again. His skull hits the headstone with a thump, and everything goes black.

Apparently, he's not out for long, because when he comes to, Sam's still frantically screaming, "Dean, you okay?" while trying to cram Crafty Ghost-Bitch full of rock-salt. She keeps recovering faster and faster, cornering Sam against a tree before managing to knock the shotgun out of his hands. "Dean!" Sam yells. "Just get to burning her already!"

Dean's still blinking blearily, until Sam's knocked to the side, landing awkwardly on his left arm, which promptly twists and crumples under his weight. Sam's pained shout is enough to galvanise Dean onto his feet, and ignore the marching band that's slowly begun to set shop inside his head. He slides open the matchbook and drag-flicks one of the matchsticks to life.

"No punchlines now, sorry," he says even as he drops it into the grave.

Crafty Ghost-Bitch disappears with a scream and a burst of flame just before she swoops down on Sam again.

Dean staggers toward his brother. There's a warm trickle down the back of his neck, and he reaches back to discover a fair-sized bleeding bump on the back of his head. He hisses even as Sam slowly hefts himself to his feet, cradling his left arm.

"Let me see," Sam says immediately reaching toward Dean's head even as he ineffectually tries to bat that gigantic hand away. "It's not bad," Sam says after a moment. "The scalp's split some, but you should be okay."

"Well, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. House," Dean says irritably, but he grins at Sam. "Any expert opinions on that arm of yours?"

Sam laughs. "Just sprained, I think."

Dean nods, winces (he thinks he's collected enough head injuries to have learned by now, but apparently, no) and turns to watch the burning grave. "Can't wait to get back to an ice-pack, painkillers and a cold beer. Maybe even indulge in some Pay Per View, eh, Sammy?"

"And maybe stitches," Sam reminds him.

"Like I'm going to allow you, one-handed and with a needle, anywhere near my head."

"You're not going to have a choice."

"Oh yes I do. And I choose no."

Sam sighs, but gives up for the moment. They stand for a few more moments in near-silence, with only the faint roar of the fire, before Sam says suddenly, "You do know what this means, right."

Dean frowns. "What means what?"

"My arm," Sam says. "I'm not going to be able to dig for, I don't know, a week or more at least?"

Dean gapes at him. "You're not—"

Sam grins. "Just sayin'."

"You think you can stitch one handed, you're very well going to be able to dig one-handed." Dean smiles. "Bitch."

A soft snort. "Jerk."

Finis