"Hey there, Dean."

Dean blinked, having trouble focusing on Sam. "S'mmy?"

If Dean knew his brother—and he did—Sam was close to tears. "Yeah, bro. That was too friggin' close, you hear me?"

"Mm," Dean mumbled. "Dad 'kay?"

"He's fine, you need to rest, alright? Just get better."

"Mmm." Dean wanted to ask Sam about the demon, about the bruises Sam was sporting, not to mention the way he looked terrified, but he was pulled back into the dark without permission.

The next time he woke up, Sam was sacked out in the chair next to him, feet on Dean's bed and head tilted back, mouth wide open. Dean really needed a spoon.

His father was also in the room, not looking at Dean, but looking at Sam. There was something strange in his eyes, but Dean couldn't figure it out. He shifted and got his dad's attention.

"Dean, glad to see you back with us."

At their dad's voice, Sam jerked awake, wincing and pulling an arm protectively around his middle.

"Y'okay Sammy?" Dean asked, voice hoarse.

"I'm good," Sam smiled tightly and sat up all the way. "How are you feeling?"

Dean did a self-evaluation, finding only the pleasant haze of drugs and a strange tightness on his insides and tug of skin from surgery.

"I . . . the demon," he realized. "The gun?"

"Not yet," Dad said. "We've got the Colt still, but the demon hasn't shown itself since the crash. Possibly because Sam threatened to use the last bullet."

At Dad's glare, Sam seemed to wilt further in his chair. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the tight way he was holding himself . . . Dean opened his mouth but was interrupted by the nurse entering and fussing over the equipment attached to him.

"I'm going to get back to research," his dad murmured. He left, briefly clasping Dean's shoulder.

Dean waited until the nurse left before turning his focus on Sam.

"Dude, are you alright?" he said, preempting Sam's open mouth to say something.

"Dean, seriously. Stop worrying, okay?" Sam's face had folded into lines of near-anger. "I swear, you were that close to . . ." Sam bit his lip and stared past Dean, eyes haunted. After the heart-issue and the faith healing, Dean had sworn he would never get that look on Sam's face again; he would take better care of himself, make sure he was there for Sam, stay alive.

Yeah, good job with that.

"Hey." Dean disentangled a hand from his bedding and weakly backhanded Sam's arm. "I want some food, bitch."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "You just woke up from a coma, Dean."

Dean smiled innocently. "Pie," he demanded.

Sam shook his head. "Hopeless," he muttered under his breath. "Go to sleep, Dean."

Dean grumbled for form, but shut his eyes with relief.

It wasn't surprising when he woke up to harsh angry whispers.

"I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment." Sam's voice was hard and brittle, the same tones in his voice that had been before Stanford. Only Dean couldn't intervene, unless he managed to open his drug-weighted eyes.

"Guh," he managed to grunt.

The voices stopped. Dean heard someone leave the room.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded like the ten year old who used to follow Dean around.

"Mmm. Cement." Dean finally forced his eyes open, Sam coming slowly into focus.

"Yeah, well drugs'll do that to you. That's what happens when you nearly get yourself killed." Sam's eyes were desperate with worry and pain, and Dean lifted his hand heavily and patted Sam's arm.

"Get me out of here?"

"Soon as you can sign the AMA papers with a steady hand," Sam said waspishly. "Go back to sleep."

"Don' argue with Dad." Dean mumbled. "Please."

A flash of shame and anger crossed Sam's face. "I'll do my best."

"Goo'boy." Dean slipped—for the millionth time—back into unconscious slumber.

A/N: fjkdlsajfklds;ajfk i have been gone so long i'm sorry. No inspiration, no time. Adulting sucks. Sorry guys :(