A/N: Happy birthday Supernoodle, you dedicated whumper of Dean!
"How many fingers?"
"Thirty-seven."
"Yeah. OK." Sam flips over the ice pack on Dean's forehead. White-lipped, Dean winces.
"Head hurts."
"I know, man." Sam licks his thumb and smoothes a smear of blood off Dean's chin. "Just talk to me, all right? What color's my shirt?"
"Ugly."
"Oh, a smartass." Sam twists the cap off a tube of antibiotics. "OK. Where would you go right now if you could go anywhere?"
"Sleep."
"Wordplay. Nice. Soon. I promise." Sam dabs at his cuts. "Uh, what's the first thing you're gonna do when you wake up?"
"Puke."
"I..."
Dean sits, panting.
"Oh."