Counting the Times
The first time Dean opened his eyes, Sam remembered thanking God. He remembered being so relieved when the nurses told him Dean had been extubated, that his airway was no longer swelling under the stress of Alastair's vicious grip. He remembered the last time Dean had lain in a hospital bed, and how that had turned out, and his stomach rolled at the memory.
The first time Dean opened his eyes, he couldn't move. He'd opened his mouth to answer Sam but no sound came out. Sam's initial joy at seeing Dean awake was soon crushed by the realisation that this Dean...this Dean that had awoken...was different. If the eyes were the window to the soul, then Dean's soul was broken. Sam bit the inside of his lip as he waited for Dean to make eye contact. He spoke to him. Gently calling his name. Quietly. Reassuringly. But it never happened.
The second time Dean opened his eyes, they flicked around the room in a desperate attempt to remember where he was. Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, expecting some sort of kick back, but there was none. His breathing began to settle and at last, at last, he looked up at Sam. Such utter sadness within, it almost took his breath away.
"Hey." Sam murmured. "How's the head?" And the eye contact was gone. Slowly, he began to turn his head away, closing his eyes against the world. Sam remembered clenching his teeth at the anger he felt. This should never have happened. This wreckage, this dishevelled, fragile being lying so vulnerable in that bed was his big brother, Dean Winchester. And look at him. Look at him now.
The third time Dean opened his eyes, it was dark outside. The lamp at his bedside proving a poor disguise for bruises blackening Deans face and neck. Sam no longer called his name. He knew he was there. Did he know that he'd always be there? This time Dean had searched him out. Actually turned his head to see if anyone was there beside him. Sam remembered not smiling at him. Expecting him to turn away, to seek solace in more sleep, to hide his mind from whatever reality Alastair had pummelled into him only yesterday. He looked at Sam with a weary regret that Sam could almost taste. And Sam remembered raising his eyebrows and drawing closer to his brother, in the hope that he might want to say something. Anything.
"Do you want anything? Dean...say something."
"Alastair?" he croaked.
"Dead. And so is Uriel. And Castiel is...he's around, somewhere," Sam added.
Dean only blinked at this revelation. His eyes falling again. Falling back to his memories of whatever it was that was crushing him still. Sam leant forward, and placed a hand on Dean's forearm. But Dean didn't respond. He only closed his eyes, and turned away once more.
Sam hesitated for a beat, then sat down again. He glanced at the empty coffee cup on the night stand, and then sat back in his chair. The next time. The next time Dean opened his eyes, he would ask him what had happened back in that warehouse. Because there had to be something. Something more than just the horrific experience of returning to the torture he had to perform in hell. Something that bastard said to Dean. Something he told him. He would make him say it.
Yeah. That's what he'd do. The next time.