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

Author's Note: So the Muse really wanted to get you guys something for Christmas. Unfortunately, all you get is this crappy little story.…


"Come on, Sammy," Dean calls out from the motel parking lot, his younger brother giving him the Bitch Face to end all Bitch Faces as he eyeballs his older brother in exasperation.

"Dude, no!" Sam yells back, just barely poking his head out from the warmth of the motel room. "It's practically a blizzard out there!"

"Yeah, you big lug. It's great! Come on out!"

The brothers have been cooped up in their motel room for over 48 hours, the pop-up storm that's already dumped over a foot and a half of snow making their planned departure following the completion of their last hunt impossible until after the roads are cleared.

And while at first both young men had enjoyed some rare down time after the hustle and bustle of the past few weeks, the holidays making people (as well as some spirits) crazier than normal, the forced intimacy without the ability to escape is now starting to drive each Winchester slowly insane in his own way.

Sam would actually be more than happy to let his older brother run off by himself. He's often likened a cooped-up Dean to a caffeinated puppy with ADD, and this is definitely one of those instances that makes him wish he could just let him go and work off his pent-up energy in whatever morally questionable method Dean usually uses in similar circumstances.

Unfortunately, the snow is keeping him close to home, leaving Sam as his only option for an outlet.

The snowball that hurtles towards Sam's head makes solid contact, the impact sending the younger Winchester's head ricocheting backwards as the snow makes its way into his partially opened mouth before plopping to the floor in a rapidly melting puddle.

"Oh, that's it," Sam mumbles, wiping the remaining snow from his face before hastily shrugging into his winter coat, jamming the hat on his head, and yanking his gloves on. "You're a dead man!" he shouts at the rapidly retreating form of his brother, Dean's cackling laughter trailing after him like a demented echo.

Sam follows his brother's footprints through the twilight-hued snow, finally slowing down as he reaches the corner of the single-story brick building, his intimate knowledge of Dean's tactical tendencies making him wary of a sneak attack that could occur at any moment.

So instead of proceeding blindly into the wide-open space that would make him a sitting duck for additional target practice, he crouches down and sneaks a peek around the corner, giving a satisfied nod to himself when he sees his brother huddled next to a dumpster, lying in wait, a snowball clutched in his right hand and several more at the ready.

Sam stays put, quickly compacting the wet snow into several heavy snowballs of his own before making a break for it and launching a somewhat kamikaze style attack on his brother, the next few minutes filled with the sight of snowballs whizzing through the frozen early evening air and the sounds of rather maniacal-sounding laughter interspersed with brotherly taunts.

Sam's pleased to see that he has Dean pinned in place, the older Winchester's facial expression registering a combination of surprise at his brother's plan of attack and his own devious calculations, when Dean suddenly tries to make a run for it, his heckling call to "Suck it Sammy" cut off as he trips over a hidden obstacle buried in the snow, sending him crashing to the ground before Sam can even think to make a move.

Dean lands with an "Ooof" which is quickly followed by a muffled groan and a pain-laced "Oh shit".

Sam double times it over to where he finds Dean laying on the ground, curled up into himself on his side, his left arm protecting the right wrist he's got clutched to his chest.

"Arm?" Sam guesses, not even bothering to ask his brother if he's okay. He's pretty sure that if Dean was okay he'd be eating a face full of snow right now instead of hunched over his brother trying to perform triage in the middle of a not quite blizzard.

"Yeah," Dean manages to eke out, any further expressions cut off by the convulsive swallowing and jaw clenching that follows in an attempt to keep his stomach contents from disgracing the pristine snow.

"Alright, think you can sit up?" Sam asks, not wanting to add hypothermia to the possibility of shock, a real and potentially dangerous option depending on how bad the injury actually is.

At Dean's nod, he adds, "On three, okay?"

On the designated signal, Sam helps Dean struggle into a more upright position, the maneuvering made awkward by the fact that Dean refuses to let go of his right wrist.

Sam lets his brother acclimate to that position for a few seconds, not missing the deep breathing through the still clenched jaw or the slight shivering that's set in, then manhandles his brother into a standing position with the goal of getting him back into the warmth of the motel room and out of his soaked clothing as quickly as possible.

Once he's fairly certain his brother won't take a sudden face plant into the snow, Sam ushers him back to the motel room, his lower lip taking the brunt of his worry as he tries to ensure Dean's path is clear, his brother's concentration engaged in trying to keep his arm immobile against his chest.

The relief is evident in the otherwise stoic face of the older Winchester as Sam opens their motel room door and guides him towards a chair just inside, Dean sagging into it and curling into himself again, letting out the slightest moan and rapidly straightening back upright when his wrist protests the added gravitational pull of his previous hunched over position.

"Oh, Son of a Bitch," he grinds out, blowing out deep breaths between pursed lips in an effort to keep himself from freaking out. Because Dean's not quite sure yet if the fact that he can barely move his fingers without wanting to gnaw off his own arm is a good sign or not. At least he can still feel them. Although, right now, he kind of wishes he couldn't.

"Okay," Sam says, rapidly stripping off his own outerwear in order to focus his attention on Dean. "Let me take a look."

"I don't think I want you to," Dean replies, trying to jiggle some of the pain out through his legs while continuing to keep his right wrist stable against his chest, giving Sam a wary look as his little brother holds out his hands.

"Come on," Sam coaxes, beckoning with his fingers, "I need to see what we're dealing with. And we've got to get you out of those clothes."

"At least buy me dinner first," Dean says, his attempt at humor lost on his single-minded brother.

Sam's Bitch Face leaves little room for argument and Dean finally takes a deep breath and clenches his teeth again, grimacing as he moves his left hand from where it's forming a protective cocoon and moving it underneath his right wrist in an effort to support it while extending it towards his brother.

Dean turns his head and tries to keep his breathing even, directing any further emotions into his shoulder as Sam works to gently pull his coat sleeve above the injury, the brothers' eyes meeting when Sam sucks in his breath after he finally sees his brother's arm.

The "S" curve to Dean's wrist is definitely not normal. But at least there are no bones poking through the skin. So at least they've got that going for them.

"Shit," Dean breathes out yet again, letting his head drop back against the wooden chair resignedly when he finally gets a glimpse of the damage done to his arm.

"Alright," Sam says more to himself than to Dean, his brain already calculating what needs to happen next.

The next few minutes are a study in tediousness, the effort required to get Dean's coat off without causing too much pain putting both brothers to the test. Sam thinks he's never done something so mundane so slowly in his life before, while Dean's convinced that Sam's motions are still way too fast.

By the end of the insufferable task, Dean's shirt is soaked in a cold sweat and Sam's in danger of biting through his lower lip. But at least they're one step closer to their goal.

Unfortunately, it's a goal neither of them really wants to accomplish, the task of reducing Dean's obviously displaced fractures and getting his wrist splinted until they can get to a hospital not high on either brother's wish list, but necessary nonetheless. Because the forecast isn't looking too promising and the nearest medical facility is over an hour away in good weather. And they've both been around the broken bone block enough times to know that they need to get Dean's arm into a better position to avoid potential complications.

So, Sam does some quick online research, thanking their lucky stars that at least the storm hasn't knocked out the Wi-Fi, and finds the method of reducing the type of fracture Dean most likely has, saying his prayers that he doesn't end up causing more damage.

Sam leaves his brother for a few quick minutes, returning to the room with a couple of ACE bandages and a sturdy cardboard box he was able to find in the trunk of the Impala, taking a few minutes to break down the box and tearing a couple of pieces into the size and shape of his liking, padding them with some of the motel's hand towels while he steels himself for the task ahead.

He gets Dean settled on the bed, taking the belt off of his own waist for Dean to bite down on, the nonverbal apology evident in his eyes as he asks for his older brother's forgiveness for what he's about to do.

Dean, for his part, uses his left hand to help hold out his injured right until Sam is able to hold it steady, taking the belt with little more than a resolute nod and biting down on it before covering his face with a pillow, trying to keep as many emotional reactions under wraps as possible.

Sam swallows a couple of times and takes a deep breath, then gives himself to the count of three before gently applying the necessary traction to try to maneuver the bones into a more normal position.

And even though he's had to do this for his brother and his father more times than he'd ever want to admit, the feeling of the bones moving underneath his hands never gets any easier, nor does hearing the scream of pain that the pillow and belt aren't quite able to stifle.

Dean quickly flings the pillow aside and pulls the belt out of his mouth with his left hand, his right still firmly held in Sam's grasp, rolling towards the side of the bed and reaching for the waste basket that Sam's already put within reach, well aware of his brother's penchant for puking when he's broken a bone.

Sam can only watch helplessly, trying to keep Dean's now more normal appearing wrist steady while his brother's stomach empties itself repeatedly. He's not too sure he himself won't be far behind, the sensation of the grating bones joining with the sounds of Dean's retching to cause his own stomach to churn in a rather nauseating dance of disapproval.

"Oh God," Dean groans when his stomach has nothing left, rolling back onto the bed and flopping his left arm across his waxy face.

"You all right?" Sam asks warily, reaching for the cushioned cardboard and ACE wrap while eyeballing his brother's immobile form.

"Yeah," groans Dean, "peachy." He peeks out from under his arm and gives Sam a wobbly smile, the apology evident in his own eyes regarding his recent activities. "Sorry for that," he mumbles, twitching his head to the side to indicate the basket containing the remains of his breakfast.

"Yeah, well," says Sam with a rueful smile, working to get Dean's arm and wrist secured to the padded cardboard, "I hope that's not all you got me for Christmas."

Dean can't stop the snort of laughter that escapes him, nor the groan of pain that follows, but gives Sam his own wry smile in appreciation of his little brother's attempt to add some levity to the situation.

Sam huffs out a laugh of his own as he evaluates his makeshift splint, double-checking to make sure that Dean's circulation and sensation are still intact.

"So, Sam," Dean says, slowly working his way upright, only to sag against the head of the bed, his left hand cradling his splinted arm against his chest once again. "You know what I got you," Dean says, again nodding towards the basket next to the bed, "what'd you get me for Christmas?" he asks, trying to work a smile past the fatigue showing all too clearly on his face.

"I got you that splint for Christmas," Sam says with a straight face. "Hope you like it. Took me forever to pick it out."

"Aww, Sammy," says Dean, wincing as he shifts his arm, "you always know just what I want."

"Nothing but the best for you, you big Jerk," Sam mutters with a roll of his eyes, not working very hard to bite back the smile that threatens to creep over his face.

"Hey Sam? Thanks," Dean says, moving his splinted arm just enough for Sam to know what his brother is referring to.

"Yeah," says Sam, giving his brother's leg a reassuring smack, "don't mention it. Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," Dean echoes with a wry half-smile. "Merry Frickin' Christmas to you too."

A/N: Merry Frickin' Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!