Hello, Supernatural fandom. I'm new to the fandom, but not to fan fiction - I've written plenty for Sherlock. I've been binging Supernatural and am midway through season 12, and now I can't deny it any longer - I've fallen head over heels for yet another fandom. Oops.

I'm a huge fan of hurt!Sam stories because who doesn't love a bit of h/c and big brother Dean? This will be a collection of unconnected one-shots that all involve Sam getting incapacitated in some way, shape, or form (sorry, Sam). Some will be serious, others minor fluff.

I accept prompts, but note that I don't write any slash.

In this chapter, I'll start with something basic to get accustomed to writing Sam and Dean, so there'll be a concussion. Forgive me for any errors; I've never had a concussion nor am I a medical professional. This is set during season 8.

I'll stop monologuing now. Enjoy.

"Dean, turn the radio down."

"I like this song."
"Come on, man," Sam said, yanking out his left earbud. "I've got my earbuds in, so the least you could do is turn down your-"

"No way," Dean said, keeping his hand purposely near the radio in case Sam attempted to turn down the volume.

"Just turn it down a bit, Dean! I don't like this… electric guitar solo." Sam frowned at the music, as though the fact that it was electric guitar offended him.

"Learn to," Dean said, humming along to the tune only because he was sure it would get on Sam's nerves. "Calm down, man. We're here anyway." He eased the steering wheel to the left to pull into the driveway of a rundown trailer that had kids' toys scattered across the lawn. Rain was misting slightly; drops of water had gathered on the Impala's windshield and small patches of mud speckled the dirt driveway. The sky was a uniform dark gray with low fog blanketing the evergreen trees.

Sam had found what seemed to be a vengeful spirit in Missouri. The past three owners had all been killed - found dead with bones shattered and bruises blooming over their bodies as though they'd gone for a spin in a washing machine.

"Here," Dean said, tossing Sam a gun filled with rock salt once they were out of the car and standing, heads ducked, in the cold spray of the soft rain. "In and out. I want to get back to the bunker in time for the game."

"You got the lighter?" Sam asked, lifting the bag of salt. "The local legend better be right about the body being under the floorboards. I'm really not in the mood to dig up a grave tonight."

"Let's just get this done," Dean grumbled, scowling at his boot as he stepped in a rather deep puddle. "This is the fourteenth angry spirit in a row. We need a vamp, or a werewolf. Anything!"

"Careful what you wish for," Sam said, cocking his gun and stepping inside the so-called "haunted trailer", according to local stories.

They wandered into the living room, lowering the guns slightly.

"Supposed to have died in here, right?" Dean asked, glancing at the floorboards that had a suspicious dark brown stain on them.

"Yep," Sam said, bending down with the metal tool they'd brought to rip the floorboards up. Dean waited next to him; it didn't take long for the board to come up. A musty skeleton was revealed below, its hands reaching towards the wall as though clawing to get out.

"Rest in peace," Dean muttered, pouring salt over the skeleton. A sudden gust of cold air made him stop in his tracks, sighing at his now-visible breath.

"Why do they always decide to show up at the very last minute?" he complained. "Sam, cover me."
Sam nodded, aiming his gun for any spectre that could appear. There was a dead silence when suddenly the couch next to them slid forward, knocking them both off their feet and covering the hole that exposed the spirit's skeleton. They leapt to their feet, scanning quickly for any sign of a spirit.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Duck!" He fired off rock salt at the scrawny ghost of a man that had appeared behind his brother. Dean obliged, falling to his feet as the salt made the spirit disappear. The silence came back, and all that could be heard was the soft rain on the roof.

"Think he's gone?" Dean said in a low voice, lifting the bag of salt again. "Don't want Mr. Scrawny getting too annoyed and throwing the couch at us again-"

"What's that sound?" Sam asked, his voice so quiet that Dean could hardly hear.

"The voices in your head, probably," Dean said, smiling to himself in spite of the situation.

"No, shut up! I hear something!" Sam insisted. "It sounds like… a rock." He moved to the window and peered outside. "Uh, Dean? He's… pulling rocks out of the ground."
"You've got to be kidding," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Help me move the couch!" Sam instantly joined him and helped heave the large sofa off of the hole in which the skeleton laid.

A sudden crash from a rock shattering the window sent splintering glass over them, but the glass didn't just fall to the floor - it was sent, like projectiles, right at them. Dean instantly dove, bringing Sam to the floor with him.

"Light the body!" Sam yelled, ducking as a rock went flying for him. He shifted so that he was guarding Dean, who was pouring lighter fluid over the corpse. A rock went flying at him and he attempted to block its arc from hitting Dean by catching it.

"You alright?!" Dean asked sharply.

"Fine," Sam wheezed, clutching his chest. "Is it done?"
"Lighting it," was Dean's reply, and the snick of the fire hitting the body announced that it was over. Sam turned to his brother, awaiting the yell that would signify the end of the spirit.

However, it wasn't the expected scream that came next but instead a shouted warning from Dean before a dense, excruciating force cracked into the back of his head. He staggered forward, falling to the ground and clutching at his head which felt as though it had been cleaved in two. Darkness swallowed the edges of his vision as he foggily heard the shriek of the spirit before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Sammy!" came Dean's concerned voice. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," Sam responded woozily, his head spinning. "Ow."

"It got you right before it burned," Dean said regrettably. "You sure you're okay? Concussion, maybe?"

Sam concentrated on the question, playing his brother's words over in his head before realizing what he was being asked. "What?" he asked. "Oh. I mean, yeah. Wait, no. Uh… are - are you okay?" He glanced over Dean, checking for any injuries from his position on the floor.

"I'm fine. I wasn't the one who was just hammered in the skull by a rock," Dean said, shaking his head. "Let's get back to the bunker. Man, you were nailed." He put out the fire, once the skeleton had been thoroughly charred, and looked down at Sam. "You planning on getting up?"
"Yeah," Sam said quickly, and clambered to his feet awkwardly, gripping the edge of the couch. His vision tunnelled into darkness again and he waited before moving for it to clear.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, his face swimming back into Sam's view again.

"Uh… waiting for the darkness to go away. Orthopedic hypotension," Sam said, recalling the term rather randomly.
"Geek. Any day, now?"

"Yep," Sam said, his mouth dry. He paused as they stepped out of the door, craning his neck. "What's that sound?"

"You're not hearing possessed rocks again, are you?"
"No. Just a really… high pitched sound." Sam winced slightly, following Dean out to the Impala. "Nevermind. I think it's nothing."

"Yeah, alright, Sam. You're totally fine. I think you've got a concussion," Dean said. "Come on, get in. Don't you dare vomit in Baby," he added warningly, and though his tone was stern, he watched Sam carefully as though afraid he would hit his head again climbing into the car.

"Oh," Sam said suddenly before wrenching at the car door handle and flinging himself out, heaving on the ground. Bile came up and he spat it onto the ground. Dean was immediately at his side.

"Dude. How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, waving his fingers in front of Sam's face.

"Four," Sam groaned, pushing his hand away. "I said I'm fine, Dean. It's a small concussion. Nothing to worry about." He didn't bother to mention the dull ache that was pulsing behind his eyes. "I'll just… sleep on the way home."

"No, you're not, concussion boy," Dean said. Sam frowned, then got back into the car, Dean following suit. The latter started the engine, and they drove off, tires squealing in the mud. An hour passed with only the hum of the Impala ringing through the air. Dean had neglected to turn on the radio this time, and Sam couldn't help but feel slightly mollified by it. The pounding behind his eyes had heightened and he clenched his fists, willing the pain to stop.

"Sam? Hey, you're not allowed to sleep," Dean said suddenly. Sam opened his eyes.

"I wasn't," he said stubbornly. "It's just… headache." He contemplated the nausea swelling in his chest and choked. "Dean, pull over!"

Dean must've heard the panic in his little brother's voice because he pulled over immediately, and Sam tumbled out of the car before puking up a watery, orange substance onto the ground once again. He coughed, wiping his mouth.

"At least it wasn't in the car," Dean said, standing protectively near Sam nonetheless. Sam stood up, trying to hide the immense headache that was now splitting his head into pieces. He staggered slightly and Dean's hand shot out to his shoulder.

"Hospital?" Dean asked.

"Nah. Let's just get back to the bunker. Not the first concussion ever," Sam reminded him, spitting onto the ground again. "We're nearly back."

Dean paused, considering his brother. "Sammy, you know you can tell me what hurts, right? You don't have to pretend that you don't have a concussion," he said gruffly, sliding into the car again.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, okay, Dean. Next time you fall, or a spirit tosses you around, let's talk about exactly what hurts, then we can put a band-aid on it." He wasn't sure why he was irritated, but the feeling of being pitied was not one that he welcomed.

"Don't be a bitch," Dean said, and smirked slightly. "I always hate when you're concussed. You get so emotional."

"Dean!" Sam said, annoyed.

"It's the truth."

Sam opened his jaw to respond, but they had arrived back at the bunker and he didn't feel motivated enough to follow through. Instead, he shut the car door, ignoring the flare of pain through his head when it closed loudly. Heat rushed to his head suddenly and the black at the edges of his eyes filled his vision so quickly that he had hardly any time to react.

He opened his eyes mere seconds later, realizing that he had briefly passed out. Dean was supporting him entirely.

"Give me a better warning next time," Dean said.

"Sorry," Sam said, slightly meekly, and aware that his words sounded a bit dazed. "I'll be fine after a night's sleep."

"You're not going out of my sight."

"Dean, you do realize that I'm an adult-"
"If we're not going to a hospital, then you have to let me make sure you don't… pass out and knock your head, or something equally stupid," Dean said firmly, and arm around his little brother he led him back into the bunker.

Well, first chapter: done. Like I said, some hurt!Sam will be serious, others will be more light-hearted. It's pretty obvious that this was the latter.

As stated previously, I accept prompts. Leave your prompt in a review or PM me.

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