Hey guys!

This fic takes place near the beginning of season two. So obviously, there's going to be a spoiler for episode 1. If you haven't seen that yet, I suggest you catch up! Anyway, please enjoy!

"Sam! No!" Dean called, rushing to shove his brother aside from the wrath of the vengeful spirit. His brother was a direct target now – having saved Dean by created a loud ruckus to distract the ghost. How could he be so reckless? He's in danger now!

In an instant, Dean's attempt to save his brother was destroyed as he was flung against the wall, his head banging against the brick like he was weightless. The ghost continued its pursuit of Sam, who was now scrambling for his shotgun, cast aside earlier as he tried to get the spirit's attention away from Dean.

"Dean! - shit!" Sam cried, as he too was thrown, colliding with a large glass cabinet. Broken shards rained down upon him, digging into his skin and drawing out small beads of blood from the scarred surface. The ghost disappeared, but seconds later bricks went flying from where they lay scattered on the floor, one hitting Sam directly in the ribs and he groaned as he felt a crack, pain exploding throughout his torso.

Suck it up, son! John's voice echoed through his head, the four words that he used to say to Sam after every hunt – then, irritating and without compassion but now, encouragement to save his brother. He had to do this.

He bit back a cry as he rolled himself onto his stomach, using his elbows to drag himself forward. The pain from his head – from his back and ribs too – was almost too much for him to deal with, and the sinister threads of unconsciousness tugged at his mind, willing him to give in. He didn't. He had to succeed, or surely Dean would be killed by the ghost.

He could almost reach his shotgun, it was at most a meter away, and never was Sam more grateful for his long limbs as he gave one last push forward then extended an arm, just grabbing the gun and spinning it round in time to shoot at the spirit that had reappeared. It vanished again, this time with a wail. It bought Sam enough time to pull himself to his feet – his body screaming at him the whole time to just give up, to lie down on the ground for the spirit to find and put an end to. It hurt so bad...

As if through mud or quicksand, he dragged each foot across the ground, pausing only as he heard a slight rustle from behind him. It was a rat, not the ghost. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to wince and groan slightly as he felt the pressure on his ribs intensify. He knew he had fractured at least one, in some way. He hoped it wasn't really that bad. There would definitely be bad bruising on his back and a lump would form on his head from where he hit it, but right now, none of that mattered. He had to get to Dean.

Dean was still deeply under, and when Sam reached him he had to debate how to do this. He couldn't call an ambulance – that was never the ideal choice. Besides, he had high hopes that Dean's was only a mild head injury. The impala wasn't that far away... On a normal day, Sam would insist on hauling Dean's ass over his shoulder, but with his body so badly hurt Sam didn't want to risk collapsing under his brother's weight. Which left one option... he would just have to drag Dean out.

He grabbed a hold of his brothers arms, giving one large heave and pulling him away from where he had been left in a heap on the floor. Sorry Dean... he thought as he began to dragging his brother out of the old, abandoned house. Thankfully, the impala was closer than he thought, proving to be only a second's walk away from where they were. Sam prayed that the spirit was unable to leave the house – another attack right now was not what they needed.

They should have done more research, really. No matter how much Sam insisted on finding as much information as they could Dean would have none of it. So they went in, guns blazing and no idea where that son of a bitch was buried. Sam regretted not persisting now, but he knew it wouldn't have done any good. After their dad's death, Dean was on a roll, a violent and dangerous rampage and Sam knew better than to get in the way. He knew his brother didn't mean it when he lashed out at Sam, that he was hurting, but god... Dean didn't have some half cruel things to say.

Not that their arguments mattered right now. All Sam was focussed on way getting Dean in the impala and driving off to their motel and not returning until the older hunter was healed and he was satisfied with the amount of information they had on the spirit.

Thankfully, getting his brother into the car wasn't as difficult as he had imagined. Dean sat, still unconscious and riding shotgun while Sam dug around in the back for some bandages.

…

Dean woke up a half hour later. They were back in the motel, and his head was throbbing. Raising a hand, he felt along the side of his face until he felt the familiar soft feel of bandages – his little brother's work, he imagined.

Speaking of which, where was Sam?

Dean sat up, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness rolled over his. He swung his legs over the side of the bed stood up, allowing himself a moment to regain his composure. He remembered what had happened, and anger washed over him when he thought of Sam again.

Where the hell was Sam?

The idiot had put himself in so much danger – God, it was like he had a death wish! Dean had the ghost handled, he had his shotgun ready and was prepared to blast its brains out when Sam had called out. He wasn't even armed – so stupid.

So many thoughts had raced through Dean's mind at that point: the majority of which screamed "No!" - he couldn't lose his brother too, just after he had lost his father. Surely then, he would break. He knew he had been tough on Sam these past few weeks after John had died, but being pissed was easier than grieving and Dean was in no mood these days for chick flick moments. He probably should apologize at some point, but right now, Dean didn't know whether to do that or to swing one at his brother for putting himself in harm's way.

It was then that he noticed the shower was running. Sam was probably just cleaning up – he had managed to get Dean here anyway, so he knew that his little brother couldn't be that hurt. All worries flung out the window at this realisation he began to pace the room, his mind conjuring up things he could say to his brother that would knock some sense into him without actually having to knock it in.

The water turned off a minute later, and his brother came back into the room. Dean was surprised to see him fully clothed, especially after a shower. Sam normally wore sweats and sometimes a t-shirt after a hunt, not his jacket and jeans too.

"Going somewhere?" Dean asked bitterly. Sam looked up, as if not expecting his brother to be awake yet.

"No..." He frowned, "But I'm glad to see you're awake. How's your head?"

Sam moved to sit on his bed. Dean chose to ignore how stiff and wooden his movements were and continued to berate his brother.

"How's yours? Because it must have been hit quite hard for you to make a decision like that! You could have been seriously hurt, Sam! Why didn't you let me deal with the ghost?!"

Oh, Sam thought. So that's what this is about.

"The ghost was going straight for you! What was I supposed to do?" Sam asked angrily.

"Leave me to fix it, dammit!" Dean shouted back.

It didn't take long before the argument escalated further, ending in Dean storming out the motel and surely heading down to some local bar to pick up some girl. Sam knew that he probably wouldn't be back tonight.

Groaning, Sam sat down from when he had stood up earlier during their fight. His head was aching horribly, a sharp, agonizing pain worming its way from his back to his skull and he wished he had brought in some painkillers from the impala. Dean had the keys, so it was too late to get them now anyway – not that he could. His limbs were too weak, and rolled onto his back, not bothering to take off his jacket. If he did, Dean would probably see the bulk of the bandages under Sam's thin shirt, and wonder where they were from.

Would he have told his brother about his injuries had they not argued? Probably not. They had fought far too much recently and Sam didn't want to cause Dean any more worries of pain than he already had... so it was best to keep quiet. If he kept an eye on them, his ribs should heal nicely under the bandages and he just needed to make sure his back remained protected for a while – he didn't want the bruising that was already starting to form blue and black splodges to get any worse. As for his head... well, it wasn't really that bad. It would hurt for a few days and heal itself, hopefully.

Sam knew he should tell Dean, get them to stop hunting for a bit while they both healed. But he really didn't want to seem as if he were whining, something Dean had accused him of before this hunt. So Sam settled down on his bed, preparing for a restless night's sleep.

…

When Sam awoke in the morning, Dean still wasn't back. Sam tried not to think back to last night's argument, but it was really difficult when the words bounced around his head without stopping – making it hurt more than it already did.

Slowly, he began to sense pain prickling up his spine. Before he could move, it turned into full out agony and Sam let out a pitiful wail as he remembered that he didn't have any painkillers. He shifted briefly, which turned out to be a huge mistake. More pain erupted but this time in his head. He regretted not telling Dean now, for his brother would be a comfort right now even if he wasn't in the best of moods.

Deciding to get up, Sam slowly turned on the bed and stood up, his muscles protesting all the way but only when he rose at full height did it become bad -

Unable to hold the pain, or his own weight, Sam collapsed to the ground.

…

Dean surprised himself when he hadn't spent the night with a girl he picked up in the local bar. Sure, he had gotten shit-faced drunk and hit on a few chicks, but he had decided that he didn't want a hook up that night. Instead, he had slept in the impala, making use of the blanket they kept in the back in case they didn't have a motel for the night.

His head still hurt – he had hit it pretty hard, anyway... or maybe it had something to do with the amount of drinks he knocked back yesterday. Probably.

He opened the car door and climbed out into the already warm morning, stretching his muscles out. Now he had to face Sam. He hoped the kid had his act together now, maybe he'd even apologize for being so reckless. Sam was a peacekeeper, so no doubt he'd try to make amends. It was a new day... maybe Dean would try as well.

He walked briskly into the motel lobby, ascended the stairs and opened the door, shocked to hell that he didn't find it it locked.

He was even more shocked at what he saw next.

So, what do you think? Should I continue, or should I scrap it? Thanks for taking the time to read, anyway!