A searching touch.
He bucks, pain flaring when bone moves.
"Alright, easy." Gentle fingers brush his face. "Dammit, Dean."
"Is dead?" His tongue stumbling against swelling, busted lips.
Sam's big hands warm against Dean's clammy skin. Cracked ribs again.
"He was already dead."
Sam glanced at the smeary corpse he'd pasted across the floor. Screw the headache, Dean was safe.
"Now he's deader."
Dean gasps, a choked laugh as his stomach lurches.
Steady hands along his side, Dean moans. Pressure, pain. Suddenly easier to breathe.
"Let's sit you up."
He leans against Sam, shivering, hurt, achy.
"Nugging."
"No hugging, bro."