Sam tries to deal with a 'manually challenged' and grouchy Dean. Bobby teaches Dean the true meaning of 'Grouchy'.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own addled and deeply disturbed mind.
The doctor had delivered his verdict to Sam who he had found pacing up and down in the corridor outside the examination cubicle. Not exactly a newsflash; The glazed look in Dean's eyes, the vacant staggering and the fact that he had tried to cling on to a Sam standing two feet to the right of the original one were dead giveaways to that. Yep, concussion, our old friend …
Bruising to the face, shoulders and chest, nothing serious thankfully. Yep, again, not exactly a shock; it was a sad fact of their lives that both of them felt naked if they didn't have a couple of colourful medals to show for their exploits these days.
Then he dropped the bombshell. "X-rays have indicated fractures to both wrists. He's being plastered up at the moment". Sam's jaw dropped.
"Yes", said the Doctor cheerily, "Fairly straightforward Colles fractures"; he produced two X-ray plates which both showed feathery lines snaking across the bones of Dean's wrists. The Doctor continued, explaining that these sorts of fractures often happen when individuals fall forward, putting their hands out to stop themselves; Sam smiled pleasantly and nodded as if in agreement. He didn't like to point out that these particular fractures were caused by his brother falling forward into an open grave.
"Anyway", the Doctor continued, "like I said, seem quite straightforward, just looking at a standard six weeks in plaster, nothing to worry about, lots of rest and relaxation and don't let him get the casts wet."
Sam's smile grew wider and less convincing as he tried to share the doctor's reassurance, "Nothing to worry about? You try living with him plastered up and unable to use his hands like this for six weeks!"
As if on cue, Dean appeared around the corner, plastered from fingertips to mid-forearm both sides, and wheeled in a chair by a stout, middle aged nurse.
Sam thanked the nurse and gulped when he took the handles of the chair, looking down at his heavy eyed brother rendered docile by a potent combination of concusson, antibiotics and industrial strength painkillers. Six weeks? God help me … six weeks?
Sam reached for his phone and did the only thing he could think of doing under the circumstances … "Bobby?"
The first three days were gloriously calm. Dean, decanted into his usual bed at Bobby's house, had slept almost continuously and taken every drug Sam had offered him without question. Bobby, completely bamboozled by this compliant, angelic figure, had even been driven to question whether a changeling had been planted on them.
Sam felt slightly guilty that he was thoroughly enjoying the placid brother that the hospital's painkillers were delivering, a brother who accepted food from Sam's hand quietly and graciously, who gazed woozily into Sam's eyes without comment as Sam wiped a trickle of soup from his chin; who calmly acquiesced with nothing more than a soppy smile to being undressed, washed and even given a little moral support when he tried to pee without help for the first time.
Sam also felt a distinct sense of foreboding as he had just administered the last of the hospital's painkillers to Dean who had just fallen asleep under Sam's reassuring hand; the phrase 'calm before the storm' kept coming to his mind …
The thunderbolt struck the following morning; and it struck hard.
"You are not feedin' me with that!" growled Dean staring at the bowl of oatmeal Sam had delivered like it was a bowl of toenail clippings.
Sam took a deep breath. "You've eaten it for the last three mornings" he pointed out, "I've put honey in it, so it's nice and sweet!" He loaded the spoon and waved it in Dean's face.
"Poke it". Dean looked straight through Sam and his spoon.
"Well, what do you want then?" asked Sam, defeated.
"Something I can feed myself with" he snorted, wiggling the exposed tips of his fingers. "You ain't giving in to your pervy, touchy-feely, nursey urges with me".
Sam glowered at him; but that was that. Dean's menu from there-on-in would consist of toast, sandwiches, toasted sandwiches and all and any variations that could be gripped between fingertips.
Sam wasn't even going to raise the issue of more personal help.; even after he strolled up the stairs to see Dean walking slowly from the bathroom, muttering angrily to himself and shaking his left foot irritably with every other stride.
Bobby was bent over the kitchen table, reading his newspaper, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. He could hear the loud and increasingly aggressive altercation from the bathroom upstairs.
"I can wash myself!"
"No you can't - you can't get your damn casts wet …"
"Then, I'll freakin' figure something out!"
"Dean, you need a wash now - you stink!"
Bobby looked up, "way to go, Sam - win hearts and minds …"
"A man who don't sweat ain't healthy … 'course, being a steamin' great WOMAN you wouldn't understand that … "
Bobby sighed; he was missing Dean, the perfect patient of a couple of days ago. Dean really was the thick-headed, stubborn, moose-stupid patient from hell and he wouldn't blame Sam in the slightest if he lost it and bopped his brother a haymaker sometime soon.
Bobby tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on his newspaper, ignoring the melee of shouting and crashing going on upstairs, until he heard Sam's footsteps stomping down the stairs; "you're a moron" he yelled back up the stairs; "bite me" came the gruff response from the landing.
Sam trudged into the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. He leaned heavily against the door; "hey Bobby, do you think it's possible to love your brother and want to rip his spleen out at the same time?" he sighed.
Bobby looked Sam up and down, from his exasperated expression to the dripping sponge in his hand
"Possible?" Bobby replied, "for your brother, that's normal ain't it?"
Bobby got up with a grunt and walked over to Sam, taking the sponge from Sam's hand, he took a bowl from under the sink, filling it with water he tossed in a cake of soap. Sam watched him quizzically,. "What ya doin''?" he asked the older man.
"Learned a thing or two in my time …" grumbled Bobby mysteriously and headed on up the stairs armed with the bowl and sponge.
Sam followed him to the foot of the stairs and saw him disappear into their room.
"Hey, you're supposed to knock!" came the sulky voice from inside the room, "what ya doing with tha … AAAAGGHH!"
"Suck it up, Cinderella"
something metallic crashed to the ground and rolled across the floor …
"Lemme go … ooooooaaahhh …" *SPLAT*
"PUT. ME. DOWN.";
"hold still, what are ya, a friggin' infant?"
"splu-splu - ack … ya could've used warm water ya sadistic old ba …GAAAAAHH!
"Get off me you old perv!"
"Can it, Princess" *SPLAT*
"Hey, get your hands off my shorts - you're not going anywhere near that part of the worl … EEEEEEP!
"Get down off the bookcase, boy. It won't take your weight …"
"What the f ….?" *CRASH*
"splutt-spluuuh … SAAAAAAAAM!"
Sam listened nervously from he foot of the stairs as the commotion continued; bedsprings creaked and groaned; another loud clatter sounded and the ceiling shook menacingly under the onslaught dislodging a small festval of plaster dust and woodlice onto Sam's head.
Suddenly everything went quiet.
Sam ventured halfway up the stairs and saw Bobby emerging from the bedroom. soaked from head to foot, a thin trickle of blood stained his lip, and a dark bruise was beginning to blossom across his face; a sure sign of a plaster cast across the bridge of the nose.
The sleeve had been ripped off of his shirt and it's remains flopped down around his wrist.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall.
"All done", he panted.
Sam bounded up the rest of the stairs. "What happened in there?" he gasped. "How did you …"
Bobby looked up at him. "I've kept dogs all my life" he explained breathlessly, "I'm used to bathing big, dumb aggressive things that don't want to be washed".
Sam grinned, he didn't think he could admire Bobby any more than he did right now.
He leaned round Bobby to open the door, but Bobby clamped a hand on his arm; "Don't", he said urgently, "There's a sulk in there, and it ain't pretty".
Sam looked at him, "pout?" he asked, trying not to laugh.
"You have no idea". Bobby gathered up his bowl and sponge and trudged down the stairs.
I may do something else maybe a bit more schmoopy h/c with the two arms out of commission theme - let me know what you think.
Hope you liked …