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

"Dude, stay down," Sam says, instantly popping up from his seat in order to stand over Dean as he struggles to sit upright.

"Why Sammy?" he asks, voice sleepy as he pushes back against the gigantic Sam hand that's now planted firmly in the middle of his chest, pressing him back onto the bed in the small cubicle in the ER they'd moved him to when it was decided he no longer required the equipment of the trauma bay.

"Because you dislocated your hip, dumbass."

"What?" Dean pshaws, the expression of disbelief on his face mirroring his tone of voice. "I'm not ninety years old Sam. How could I have dislocated my hip?"

Sam rolls his eyes and ignores his brother's rhetorical question, having already answered it more times than he has fingers.

"Okay, fine," Dean says, finally relaxing back onto the bed after a few additional weak struggles. "I'll just lay down then."

Sam lets out a slight breath of relief, only to huff a deeper sigh when he has to keep Dean from trying to roll over onto his right side.

"Lay still," he says, doing his best to keep himself in check. It's not Dean's fault that he's still in la-la land, after all.

"Don't wanna," says a slightly petulant Dean. "Wanna lay on my side."

"No," says Sam, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, "not that side you don't."

"Why not Sammy?" Dean whines.

"Cause you dislocated your hip, Dean."

"Did not."

"Yeah, Dean. You did."

"Stop being a such a buzzkill, man," Dean says, a look of annoyance crossing his face.

Sam's Bitch Face goes completely unnoticed by the high-as-a-kite older Winchester who has now decided that he'd like to flip over onto his stomach instead, yet another act that would require the use of his much-abused lower extremity.

Sam wonders if maybe Sharon could tie his brother down to the bed for the duration of his medication roller coaster, discarding the idea due to the high likelihood that the restraints would just make Dean freak out even more, likely causing more damage to his hip.

He has a brief flash of his brother in a full body cast, rendering him immobile, a wide swatch of Duct Tape covering his mouth as well.

Sam's lips twitch at that wistful thought, only to turn downwards once again when he has to jump to attention, quickly manhandling his brother back into the middle of the gurney, Dean having taken it upon himself to begin to slither downwards towards the end of the bed.

Sam wonders if hospital cafeterias have started serving alcoholic beverages yet.

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

"Sam!"

Dean's panicked exclamation rousts Sam from the tenuous hold he'd had on a couple of restful minutes, Dean having fallen asleep for what Sam had hoped would be the duration of his post-anesthesia care.

Wishful thinking.

"Sam!" Dean says again, the urgency in his voice mirrored by the frantic scrambling of his hands against the stiff white hospital blanket.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says eyes raking his brother's form in search of any potential complications to his hip dislocation or its subsequent treatment.

"They stole my pants!"

"What?" Sam asks, the initial panic ebbing away.

"They stole my pants!" he reiterates, the worry evident on his face.

"Nobody stole your pants, dude," Sam says with patience he's not sure will last much longer.

Dean nods forcefully, looking under the blanket again to double check. "No pants, Sam. Somebody stole 'em."

"They had to cut them off of you Dean. You're in the ER. You dislocated your hip."

"What?" Dean asks, incredulous at Sam's comments. "Am I okay?"

"Yeah, Dean. You're fine." Sam doubts very much that Dean's hip will be "fine" for quite some time, but his brother is in no frame of mind to hear, let alone remember, that tidbit of information.

"Whew," Dean says, relief flooding his face before his forehead furrows again. "But Sam – where are my pants? I need my pants!"

"Oh my God," Sam mumbles, palming his face in his hand.

Dean's train of thought is on a one-way track that will not be diverted, his persistent inquiry echoing through the small cubicle until it threatens to send Sam upstairs to the locked psychiatric unit, if only for some peace and quiet.

So he placates his older brother, telling him on various occasions that his pants were cut off because he was in a car accident; are in the wash; are at Bobby's; are still on (he just can't see them because they're invisible); are at a top-secret government facility being tested for cooties; and were buried in a time capsule to show what dumbasses were wearing at the turn of the century.

Dean buys all of the explanations as Sam dishes them out (the cooties explanation causing a mild panic), then quickly needs his pants again 5 minutes later.

Sam wonders if maybe he can talk Dean's nurse into giving him something to keep him from committing fratricide tonight.

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

"Hey Sammy, remember those strippers?"

Sam doesn't even respond to his brother, having no frame of reference for his ramblings; Dean could be talking about the Cin Bin, the place he was at a couple of weeks ago after that job in Michigan, or one of the other myriad seedy establishments he frequents on a way too regular basis.

"They were nice," Dean continues, voice taking on a rather dreamy tone. "Smelled kind of funny though. Hope I didn't pick anything up. Can you pick stuff up just by looking? Maybe I should get my eyes tested."

Sam wonders if perhaps his brother shouldn't just go ahead and get everything tested.

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

"Hey Sammy, you think there are any vampires in here? Lots of blood. You'd think they'd hide out here; kind of like Vamp Central Station."

Sam's chair slams back to the ground, the relaxed tipped-back posture replaced by arms propped on his thighs as he looks furtively around, trying to shush his brother. After a couple of seconds, he realizes that Dean's ramblings have so far gone unnoticed by his nurse and any passersby, his state of mind basically giving him a free pass to say whatever's on his mind (much to Sam's chagrin).

So he decides to humor his brother, spending the next half an hour engaged in a rather serious discussion about the logistics of having a bunch of blood suckers running rampant in a medical facility.

And then Dean needs his pants again.

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

"Hey Sammy, you know what's a funny word? Fork," Dean says, stopping just short of giggling. "I mean, come on. Fork. Fork. Fork."

Sam wishes he had a fork right about now. If only to shove it into his brain and scramble his own brain cells which are begging to be put out of their misery.

He doubts the plastic spork that came with Dean's Jell-O will be of much use.

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

"Hey Sammy, what do you think the color Black tastes like?" Dean asks, the dreamy tone of his voice offset by the serious furrowing of his brow. "You think it tastes like everything all rolled together in one giant burrito? Or maybe like nothing; like the opposite of an all-you-can eat buffet."

Sam wonders which of Dean's meal options come with a side of crazy. Because that's the meal he's apparently ordered.

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

The brief reprieve Sam had been enjoying from Dean's incessant asinine ramblings comes to an end when his still loopy brother resumes his rather drunken serenade, Don't Fear the Reaper still his brother's song of choice.

And while Dean's previous concerts had been limited to vocals, this performance adds percussion, the ring on his finger tapping against the metal bed rail in a regular rhythm that tickles at something in the back of Sam's head.

"Hey, Sam!" Dean calls out excitedly, finger still tapping out its staccato rhythm. "Guess what I need?"

"Your pants," says Sam blandly, resignedly steeling himself for a return to this unending argument.

"Pants?" Dean asked, a confused look his face. "What about my pants?"

Sam just shakes his head, wondering idly when the medications will stop scrambling his brother's short-term memory.

"Guess what I need?" Dean tries again, already forgetting Sam's comment about his pants.

"I don't know Dean. What do you need?"

"Sammy!" he cries out enthusiastically, "I need more cowbell!"

Sam can't help the combination laugh/snort that escapes him at his brother's exclamation, now recognizing the rhythm his brother had been tapping out as Will Farrell's cowbell from the Saturday Night Live sketch of the same name.

"Sammy! I got a fever! And the only prescription is more cowbell!" Dean says excitedly, quoting Christopher Walken's character.

Dean continues tapping out the cowbell rhythm, singing along with more gusto than Sam would have thought possible given the amount of medications still swimming around in his brother's system, ecstatic when the ER doctor sings a few bars with him while checking the pulse in his ankle.

"More cowbell Sammy!" he cries, waving at Sam to join in the commotion, the younger Winchester trying in vain to disappear from the embarrassment unfolding in front of him.

The passing security guard practically becomes Dean's new best friend when he tells a still caterwauling Dean, "Cowbell! Loved that skit!"

And Sharon just humors him. "Yep – cowbell. Got it."

Dean and his cowbell might not be the most exciting thing the ER staff has seen that night, but it's more than fair to say it is the most entertaining.

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

"Uhhhh," Dean moans, blowing out a couple of slow and steady breaths against the ache in his hip. "Fucking wildlife man," he says, cursing what he remembers about how he got into this mess.

"Hey man," Sam says, leaning on the railing to get a better look at his brother. "You back with me now?"

"What?" Dean asks, still groggy but back to his more usual self. "Did I go somewhere?" he asks, only half-joking, the last thing he really remembers being the ride in the ambulance.

"Yeah, dude," Sam says, ready to fill in the missing pieces of memory now that he won't have to keep repeating himself. "We're in the ER. You dislocated your hip. Got a lot of medications so they could put it back in." Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. "A lot of medications."

"So when can I get out of here?" he asks, grimacing against the discomfort that flares with each small movement of his muscles.

"Pretty soon, if you're back with us again," says Sharon, checking his vitals and the pulse in his foot. "He good?" she asks, eyebrows raised in Sam's direction.

"Yeah," Sam says. "As good as he's going to get anyway," he adds, earning him a frown and a middle-fingered salute from the older Winchester. "Yep," he reiterates, his dimples making a quick appearance. "He's good."

"Alright, be right back," she says, leaving the brothers alone again in the small cubicle.

"Hey Sam?" Dean asks, sleepily serious.

"Yeah."

"Where are my pants?"

Sam huffs out a weary sigh and rolls his eyes, considering making a move to chase after Sharon in order to tell her Dean's not as ready as he'd thought.

"No seriously. I need some pants, man. I'm not walking out of here naked."

"Oh. Right." So Sam does make a move, finds Sharon in the hallway and pleads Dean's case for a pair of pants that haven't been cut to ribbons.

"Oh, Son of a Bitch," Dean says resignedly, laying his head back down on the bed when he sees the crutches Sharon is carrying with her in addition to a pair of hospital scrub pants. "Seriously?"

"Quite," she says, propping them against the wall next to Dean' bed while she pulls out his discharge papers. "Doctor's orders say no weight-bearing on that leg for a week, then you can gradually start to put pressure on it as is comfortable." She begins to unhook his IV and adds, "Believe me, you're not going to want to be putting any weight on that leg for a while anyway. My son dislocated his hip last year playing rugby. Big guy, twenty years old. Cried like a baby."

"Well thank God I at least didn't do that," Dean says, face scrunching up quickly as he wracks his brain to determine the accuracy of his words. "I didn't, did I?" he says, his worried glance bouncing between Sam and Sharon.

"Nope," Sharon says, "you were much more exciting. We could all use a little more cowbell around here. Even us stripper nurses."

Dean's face clearly shows his confusion, the past several hours completely wiped from his memory by his medication cocktail, while Sam struggles mightily to keep his smirking smile in check.

His brother may be a pain in the ass, but at least tonight he was an entertaining pain in the ass. Once he stopped being a pain in the ass.

Dean slowly struggles his way into a seated position with the help of Sam and Sharon, cursing and moaning as he works alternately to move and then not move his right leg. His right hand gently prods his hip, hissing slow and steady breaths out between his teeth as he tries to find a more comfortable position.

"You okay?" Sam asks, not liking the pallor that's starting to creep back onto his brother's face, glancing at Sharon to make sure this is all part of the process.

Dean takes a couple of deep breaths before giving his brother a nod of reassurance, echoing to same to the nurse who doesn't seem to be terribly surprised that he's still in pain.

"Can you give me a couple of minutes?" he asks Sharon. "Kind of need to put on my pants."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," she says before raising her eyebrows to Sam. "You got him?"

"Yeah. We're good. Thanks," Sam replies, thankful she didn't persist in sticking around, knowing that only would have served to make Dean crankier than he probably already will be.

"Alright, slow and easy," he says to his brother once the two of them are alone again, bracing himself to take some of Dean's weight as he slides carefully off the hospital bed, keeping his weight on his left leg.

Sam helps his brother struggle into the borrowed pants, Dean unable to move his right hip the necessary amount in order to get them on by himself. Ditto for his shoes.

"Alright Cowbell. You're good to go," says Sharon, handing over the discharge paperwork and a prescription for pain medications. "Good luck."

"What the hell, man?" Dean mumbles to Sam as he crutches his way out of the cubicle that's been his temporary motel room for the evening.

Sam just shrugs, careful to keep a look of innocent confusion on his own face. He hasn't yet decided when he'll let his big brother in on the impromptu concerts he'd performed tonight.

"Good luck Cowbell!" calls the security guard as the Winchesters pass his desk on the way out of the ER.

Dean throws Sam a "What the hell?" glance, quickening his pace as he crutches his way out the front doors, following slightly behind Sam as he heads towards the beater car Bobby had arranged for them to use while the Impala is getting some TLC. "What's with these people?" he mumbles, directing his question both towards his brother and to the brisk early morning air in general.

"What can I say?" says Sam with a shrug and a straight face. "It's an ER. They have a fever. And the prescription is more cowbell."

"Oh, hey!" Dean says, a genuine smile ghosting across his face. "I love that skit."

"Yeah, Dean. We know."

A/N: Dean's comfort, part of the inspiration to this story, and hopefully some humor brought to you by the Saturday Night Live sketch More Cowbell with Christopher Walken.