I own nothing. Not Dean, not Sam, not Supernatural... *sigh* Though if anyone knows how to lift the rights from WB, I'd gladly split 'em with you.

AN: Born of one-too-many night shifts at the hospital, this is only a taste of what those poor patients in the hospital are put through while they're trying to 'recover.'

~~~~~***spn***~~~~~

Sam sat by Dean's hospital bed, listening to the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. Seemed to him he spent entirely too much time here, at his brother's side in random hospital beds, watching his brother cling to life. This is the last time, he vowed to himself. Not for the first time.

"Hey," a soft voice by the door interrupted him. "Can I get you something? A cot maybe?"

Sam turned and looked at the nurse who was peering around the curtain. "Oh. Uh, sure. Yeah, that'd be great."

The pretty young woman smiled at him and vanished, reappearing minutes later with a folded-up cot on wheels, a pile of linen perched precariously on top. Within a few moments she had it opened and readied. Sam smiled his appreciation and she blushed. "Anything else you need before I go? My shift ends in fifteen," she answered his unspoken question.

Sam waved her out. "No, no, I'm fine. Thanks though."

The little nurse checked Dean once more before turning for the door. "Least I can do for our boys in blue." Her smile was radiant, and Sam guiltily remembered that they had been posing as policemen before this little snafu. "Goodnight."

Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out on the cot and pulled the blankets up.

Then he rolled over and tried to get comfortable that way.

And rolled again.

"How do they expect anyone to sleep on these things?" he muttered under his breath. The mattress was just thick enough to give the illusion of depth while at the same time managing to highlight every single spring. He finally found a place where the line of the springs ran parallel to his sore muscles and vowed not to move.

Mrewr. Mrewr. Mrewr.

He lifted his head. What the heck? Was that a cat? He cast about the room, but couldn't spot anything, feline or otherwise. He resolved to ignore it.

Vvvvsshhh…

Air leak. Had to be an air leak. Where…? Oh. Oxygen tubing. He shut his eyes resolutely.

A faint bing…bing…bing… followed by padding footsteps that grew first louder and then faded down the hallway. The noise stopped. And started up again, bing-bong…bing-bong…bing-bong…

Sam stuffed his pillow into his ears.

And stared up at the ceiling.

Light from the hallway shone through the glass window in the door. The curtain cast a shadow across the bed, falling just right to glare into Sam's eyes. He flipped around so that his feet and his head switched places, but the curtain was not there to block out light so much as to afford the illusion of privacy. He could see right through it. He turned to face the window.

It might have been beautiful. At any other time, it would be. But, seriously, who could sleep with a birds-eye view of Broadway? Red ants marching off into the night, with white ants keeping step one lane over. Yellow and orange street lamps glared balefully up at the would-be sleeper, neon beckoning the insomniacs out to try their luck elsewhere.

The window also caught the reflected glare of every single light in the room, from the IV pump and its reassuringly green glows, to the monitors and their reassuringly red glows, to the pump-things at the end of the bed and its – he assumed – reassuringly orange glows. The wall-mounted computer flashed the occasional yellow light as it performed some internal computation. A blue motion-detecting light mounted by the door flicked on every time he moved.

Sam jammed the pillow over his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, he pulled it off, gasping for oxygen. "Who the heck makes pillows out of freaking plastic?" he demanded in a muttered whisper.

Resolutely, he turned over, shut his eyes, and steadied his breathing. Sleep would come. It always came. He could sleep anywhere, from nasty motel rooms to the back seat of the Impala to the gutter - not that he would recommend that last one, it wasn't comfortable. But if he could sleep on the city streets, he could sleep in a nice, warm, safe, sheltered hospital room. Really.

Mrewr. Mrewr. Vsshhh... Bing. Bing. Bing. Squeak-squeak. Tick...tick...tick...

Rrg. Sam looked at the clock. Then he looked at the clock again.

He let his head flop back against the plastic pillow. Not. Even. Midnight. Oh lord...

Letting his eyelids droop, he allowed his eyes to half-focus. He concentrated on the sound of Dean's breathing. It was like a lullaby, a sound more familiar to him than his own heartbeat. The soothing cadences had accompanied him to sleep every night since he was a child. He smiled, finally drifting off.

…click…

Sam shot to high alert before realizing that it was just the night nurse, padding in to check on her patient. The round, matronly woman was quick and efficient, taking vital signs, checking Dean's various contusions, bandages, tubes, reflexes, and heaven-knew-what with sure, competent hands.

Dean slept through it all.

"Doing okay, honey?" she asked Sam in a low voice before she left.

"I'm fine, thanks," he replied, punching the pillow and settling to sleep.

Deedilideet-dee-deet. Deedilideet-dee-deet.

Sam started up. What was tha-? He squinted and stared around the room. Blue lights… yellow lights… orange lights… red lights… How the heck did anybody keep any of this stuff straight? How did they even know what was buzzing?

Pad pad pad. Click.

Sam didn't bother sitting up this time; it was the nurse. She went straight for the flashing red light on the IV pole, tapped a few buttons, straightened a few tubes, and the annoying alarm finally quit, a healthy green glow lighting the room once more. She stayed for a few seconds more, watching who-knew-what, before nodding to herself and exiting.

Mrewr. Mrewr. Mrewr.

Oh. The cat-sound was the IV pump. Okay. Still creepy, but okay.

Lifting his head wearily, Sam glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty-seven. This is gonna be a long night…

~~~~~***spn***~~~~~

Click. Bzzzz...

The light went on. Sam groaned, shielding his eyes.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Dean was awake. And cheerful.

"He-hey, look at this!" he called. He was sitting up, reading the full-color menu. "They've got pancakes! And bacon. And sausage! I'm gonna order breakfast," he declared, reaching for the room phone.

A glance at the clock confirmed it. Six-thirty. "Rrg," Sam commented into the plastic pillow.

Dean, vaguely nodding his head to the phone's hold-music, shot a look his way. "What's the matter Sammy? Didn't sleep?"

His only reply was a loud, and heartfelt, groan.