*Filling the prompt I found on hoodietime journal: When Dean comes to the person tending him isn't Sam or Bobby, it's someone out of the norm, like Crowley, Meg, Roy & Walt, etc.

Set somewhere around the end of season 7 when Meg was hanging around with Cas and the Winchesters.

Fingers traced and prodded Dean's forehead and hell, did it hurt. His mind's reaction was to sit up and identify the cause of the pain. But his head felt too thick and slow for him to rip through unconsciousness that fast. He slowly started to emerge. He was fairly sure at this point that he had a concussion and he didn't want to do anything else that might put him under for any longer. Slow and steady, okay... who the fuck's hands are these?

They weren't Sam's. He knew him too well. His giant hands were smooth on the finger tips and callused on the palms. These hands were very small. And the nails were just long enough to scratch at the broken skin that was soaking his face in blood. They were soft hands but the fingers were moving with a dexterity that implied actual use. Definitely a woman's hands, but maybe a hunter? Or one jazzy bartender. Wait, who was this?

He tried to say something and it came out in a kind of gravelly groan.

Then a needle sharp pain hit the aching spot on his eyebrow.

Slow and steady went out the window, he threw himself upright, his back straight as a rod, eyes wildly trying to focus as black swirled around him threatening to pull him under again. His left hand was in a fist, the other hand groping blindly for his knife in his back pocket. Whoever had been hovering over him had leapt back, he could feel their presense a foot or two off to the right.

"Dammit- Alright, Jason Bourne, calm down."

Dean whipped his head around and tried to focus his vision enough to confirm that the voice was-

"Meg?"

"In the flesh- Well, this dead actress's flesh, but who keeps track anymore?"

Dean blinked and he could see again. Although he was pretty sure if he moved that violently again he'd throw up so he laid back against the couch he had somehow been relocated to, because last he remembered he, Sam, Cas, and Meg had been scoping out Richard Roman Enterprises, planning their seige when they'd been confronted by some black goo oozing douchebags who... Fuck, where was Sam?

"Where's Sam? What happened? Where's Cas?"

"Cas and Sam stepped out, something about the prophet in Advanced Placement." Meg said casually, picking up the threaded needle Dean had slapped out of her hand, "As for what happened, you took a brick wall to the face and were pretty much useless for the time it took us to Borax the bastards."

She pressed his shoulder down with one hand and said, "Now, don't freak out, I'm stitching the gaping hole in your head."

Dean struggled against her surprising strength, "No, get off, I got it."

Meg allowed Dean to push her away, stand up, and then collapse immediately on the spot. She slowly crouched down next to him and said, "Blood loss is a bitch, right?"