The room was dark. It was always dark. Did he really expect anything else? He was so tired of opening his eyes and trying to make out objects and shapes in the dim light. Okay, sure there were no windows in the bunker but still, what? Power was out? They hadn't paid their electric bill? Did they even have an electric bill? Sam, the lazy prick, couldn't find a lantern or two?

Dean rolled over to his back and after a moment, when the room didn't spin, eased up to recline on his elbows. His memory wasn't good, was faulty and sporadic at best but experience had taught him to be cautious when waking to the unknown. Okay then, so far, so good – woo hoot. Head off the mattress, room stationary, vision clear, nothing blurred – well, as well as he could see anyway. Okay, good, that was good. Next step, sit up – easy, slowly, careful, not too fast, you dummy – woo-wee! Yes! Success! Upright, palms flat on the mattress, either side of his hips, supporting his weight, but he was sitting up! Okay, good, still good, hell, it was great! Party-hearty!

"Fah-King Great!" he moaned pitifully, disgusted with himself for being so happy over such a small achievement.

Stomach where it belonged, head still and staying straight, no bobbing or listing to one side, eyes focused, no bile in his throat, room stationary, no objects floating or flying….now, all he had to do was stand up. Huh, did he want to try standing up? Eh, um, erhm, well...no, not really and why did he need to anyway? He didn't know, couldn't remember the reason - if there'd been a reason - so he didn't. Just like that, his hard-fought battle was forgotten and he plopped down onto his back, rolled to his side. He'd get up the next time he awoke. Maybe then it'd be daylight and he'd be able to see across the room to where he believed the door was.

"Cold." he stirred, hand flopping in search of a blanket. Yeah, the blankets were down by his feet and his hand grasped his pillow, the sheet beneath him and his own arm before he finally found the comforter and pulled it up to his shoulder. "N'all 'etter." he sighed contentedly, his cheek nuzzled against the pillow and he knew no more.

Sam, having bested his brother's impersonation of a flopping fish and guiding the comforter into his hand, quietly left the room.

The next time Dean woke up, he actually remembered waking up before, just had no idea how much time had passed. Hey, progress! Well, in his limited ability to retain memories anyway. He blinked, squinted, rubbed his eyes, huh, yeah, no, still dim. Okay, so maybe not that much time, then. Well shit. He took his time rolling over and sitting up – all was good. Oh, well no, not all. He needed to pee and…...he waggled his tongue with a grimace, nose wrinkling in distaste, sometime in the not too distant past, he'd swallowed swamp water.

No, he'd never tasted it before, but he had smelled it and hadn't it been proven that perceptions were altered – no – created by smell? Something like that. So, yeah, his dry tongue and slimy mouth were, no wait…aw fuck. It didn't matter - this is what swamp water tasted like. He knew it! Moldy, mossy, dirty, fuzzy, slimy, brackish….no, no…..there wasn't salt in swamp water, was there? Sam would know, he knew everything about useless trivia. He paused, tongue hanging on his lower lip. Now, what made him think about Sam? He pulled his upper lip away from his gums with his thumb but the taste remained.

Shit. Right, the need to pee.

Turning slowly, he scooched his ass to the edge of the mattress and swung his feet to the floor but he didn't get up. No, he just sat there, dressed in a light blue V-neck t-shirt and boxer briefs, the sheet and blankets tangled across his lap. Eh, blue shirt? He looked down, squinted, pinched a fold of the offending fabric – Sam's shirt – between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it away from his chest with another grimace of distaste. A sick feeling of dread curdled his belly and he used two fingers to lift the blanket and peek beneath. Aah, whew, yes indeed – and Thank God for it – his briefs were his own. Of course that begged the question, why was he wearing Sam's shirt?

Okay, yeah, sure. If he thought about it – and he didn't want to, and if he'd admit it – and he wouldn't, he didn't remember much about the last couple of days. Or maybe it was a week. Might be longer, he didn't remember, didn't know, didn't care. He yawned, jaw cracking with a wince. Ouch. His hand rose without conscious thought to cup his chin and massage his jaw.

Sleep. All he'd been doing was sleep. Other than his body's demands he satisfied its basic needs and functions, he hadn't gotten out of bed, of that, he was sure. Well, pretty sure, maybe. Well, at least he didn't remember doing anything else. Fuck, he didn't know, he didn't know anything. Another yawn, a twinge from his bladder and he pushed the blankets from his lap. He remembered being at a sink and Sam had raised holy hell when he'd caught Dean holding a razor. He hadn't really meant to shave. He frowned, had he? No, he wasn't that stupid, hell he hadn't been able to see straight, stop his hand from shaking or stabilize his image in the mirror. He'd just…..just…..just what? Thought it was a toothbrush, maybe? But no, oh no; Sam had been all atwitter, hands waving, arms flapping, tongue wagging, hair flying, head bouncing. Really, talk about your over-reaction.

"Aww….hell." he muttered, shaking the memory loose, what did it matter anyway? "The fuck?" there was a sudden litany of voices in his head: his scalp said, 'hey, dude, you forget what shampoo is'? His hair spoke up and said, 'itch me'. His hands said, 'sure'. His fingers said, 'be glad to'. His arms said, 'What a dumb ass. You think after a week of lying idle we can hold ourselves over your head while you take your time scratching'?

He frowned, biting on his bottom lip, a week? Yeah, a week, dumbass, how's your mouth taste? Another glass of swamp water anyone? "Shuddup."

"Hey."

He blinked, dropped his hands to lie across his lap and raised his head, bracing for the onslaught of piercing pain to slice across the back of his skull. Huh, some pain, but not knee-dropping. 'Course, there really wasn't any light. The curtains were pulled and no lamp was lit. Not in the bedroom anyway. Uh, bedroom?

"Dean?"

"So, you are here." he cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky. Where was 'here' anyway? Hey, maybe he was home. "Aw, fuck man….what'd I do?"

"You with it?"

"Hell, I dunno."

"The light bother you?" Sam opened the bathroom door and dull light spilled forth. "Hey, you with me?"

"Ow." a dull throb began behind both ears, but again, no stomach-churning pain. "Why am I wearing your shirt?"

Sam laughed, caught the glare-of-death cast his way, choked on a giggle and guwaffed. Sure, a week spent in darkness, a week without a shower or any food other than cheese and peanut butter crackers, dry toast and plain oatmeal, a week drinking coke and room-temperature water, a week without noise or light or activity or excess movement and Dean's first question was why he wasn't wearing his own shirt? Classic Dean.

"Cause you packed two and you ruined one and I had to cut the other one to get it off you."

"Huh." now that there statement required some pondering but, not now….later. "Couldn't buy more?" he frowned, rubbing his forehead as his headache blossomed. Oh-oh, oh no, here they come, taunting, humiliating memories; eating – being fed – in bed, Castiel's bumbling attempts to offer comfort and - gulp - care, Sam wrestling him into this shirt. He frowned. Cas had been there? Or was it here? Wherever he was, he sure as hell wasn't home.

"Buying another shirt involved leaving you alone to go to the store." Sam replied, arms crossed over his chest, all nonchalant with his shoulder against the door frame. "And I wasn't willing to do that."

"Cas was here." it was a statement, not a question. It'd been a rough couple of days and Dean might not remember where they were but some things he did remember. Like Cas.

"You still had a shirt when he was."

"Aah." another statement to ponder.

"How you feeling?"

"Tired." he attempted to evict his tongue from his mouth. "Dirty." and failed.

"Yeah, well, expect so." Sam crossed one ankle over the other, got comfy. "Your body needed time to heal and now it's time for it to rest."

Aanndd….yet another statement needing pondering.

"Couple days?" Dean ventured.

"A week."

"A week! The fuck? No way." but oh. Oh-woe, oh-woe-is-me, oh-no. Way and Memory, partners in crime, began a march! He gulped, and boy, were they ever marching fast and furiously; on fast-forward, skittering across his no-longer-befuddled mind in high-def, brilliant color. In. Full. Living. Detail.

A fucking mini-movie starring Sam.

Sam standing next to the bed, Sam hanging over the bed, Sam sprawled in a chair next to the bed, Sam sitting on the bed next to him, Sam – yeee-God– sleeping on the bed next to him: Sam holding a cup, a bowl, something small, square and orange, a spoon, always nudging his teeth: Sam's hands pawing at him with a wet cloth, a towel, a blanket. Sam helping him sit up, get up, walk, stagger, off his knees: Sam hovering over his shoulder, standing with him in the bathroom, both verbally and physically protesting when he was shoved out of the room and the bathroom door slammed in his face: Sam looking like a kicked dog when Dean refused his help or shook off his hand: Sam asking him – no, begging him – to drink, a straw between his fingers as he blathered on about dehydration and fluids: Sam talking softly, asking if he was comfy, if he was warm enough, was he cold, was the pillow cool and dry, did he want another one, did he need a blanket: Sam still talking softly, wanting Dean to tell him what year it was, who he was, who Dean was, what color his car was, who Bobby was, what state was the bunker in.

"Fuck me." he lowered his head, palms covering his face. "No way." he splayed his fingers on one hand and peeked out. Nope, Sam was still there. "Son-uva-bitch."

Instant replay rolled on.

Light made him nauseated, sitting up had made him nauseous, leading his stomach to rebellion. Sam, holding what was probably a trash can while Dean puked like Garth, who couldn't hold his liquor: Sam, holding his head when he didn't make the trash can: Sam, arms full of clean sheets, pushing Dean one way, rolling him the other, changing the bed: Sam, his hair blown seven ways to Sunday, unshaven with huge black circles under his eyes – that even in the dim light, were noticeable to the man with scrambled brains – slouched in the chair, tablet shielded in his lap to limit the light that escaped from the screen: Sam chewing on his lip, Sam wiping his eyes, Sam on the phone, then...Sam with washed and combed hair, clean-shaven but with bloodshot eyes talking face to face with Cas.

"No." Dean pushed to his feet, warded off Sam's offer of assistance and made his way the short distance across the room to the bathroom where he firmly shut the door, once again, in his brother's face. He hoped shutting the solid door would also shut the virtual one in his mind but he was sorely disappointed. Those f'ng memories followed him right into the bathroom and continued to flow: A+ for persistence.

Sam, patiently holding a white take-out cup while Dean took his time slurping a milkshake: Sam, talking nonsense, telling him stories, laughing over his confusion about Maggie – whoever the hell she was: Sam, threatening violence, culminating in the temporary loss of use of both arms, if he – Dean – ever set foot in the back poker room of a hick bar without Sam ever again. Sam, explaining their next job as soon as Dean was of able-body and sound-mind, would be helping Cas to restore his lost grace, power and complete healing abilities.

"Aw, man." Dean sighed, reaching for his toothbrush but it wasn't there. "SAM! The hell's my toothbrush?"

Too late, he realized his mistake. He groaned in despair, kicking the wall under the vanity with his toe. Ow, dumbass, that hurt. He really needed to stop calling himself 'dumbass'. He didn't like it. Asking Sam a question, any question, would be taken as being granted permission to gain entrance to the bathroom. Dean looked at the knob, no lock. Of course not. Not that a flimsy interior door lock – or any lock – would keep out a determined, emotional 'little' brother.

"Right here." Sam beamed, happy now that he'd gained access to where he wanted to be; beside his brother. "Use this toothpaste. Need me to squeeze…..?"

"Saamm." Dean warned, snatching the newly unwrapped blue toothbrush from Sam's hand once the smart-ass stopped waving it all about. "Get out."

Sam bit back a frown. Waving the toothbrush around had been a test. A test Dean had failed. He'd grabbed for it repeatedly but hadn't once come close to touching it or Sam's hand. He brightened as his brain forced his thought process forward; once he'd held his hand still, Dean had had no problem taking the toothbrush from him. That was progress.

"Right, right, no, ok." Sam nodded, reaching around Dean to pick up a plastic cup from the vanity and remove the protective cellophane wrapper.

Dean glared at it, some distance memory tickling his picked-clean brain, something about, something…...he hadn't been able to open something. Something he'd wanted, too. Oh well, shrug it off and go on. He grunted, staring at the bare toothbrush in one hand, unopened tube of toothpaste in the other. Come on mind, catch up. You leave me standing here staring like I don't know what I'm holding and my teeth will be brushed for me: Don't. Do. That. To. Me.

"Here, just some mouthwash is all." Sam squeezed the top and opened the bottle of mouthwash – something Dean was pretty sure he had neither the strength nor the coordination to accomplish – and poured a splash into the plastic cup that he sat next to the sink. "You sure you got a handle on the toothpaste? Here, let me…."

"You can go now." Dean bit out.

"Yeah, okay, but." Sam hovered. "It's just…." pause. "This is the first time you've been up, you know, out of bed in days and….well, how you feeling?"

"Well enough to kick your ass you don't leave."

"Yeah?" Sam said hopefully, not moving. "Shall we try taking the towel off the light? See how you do?" he reached up.

That stumped Dean; he was currently stymied by a tube of toothpaste that didn't miraculously open upon his silent command and squirt the right amount of paste onto the toothbrush so he was quite sure he was in no condition to reason why towels were draped over the lights. Nevertheless, being Dean, he ignored the yelp of warning from Sam, lifted his head to look up, and promptly swayed. Arms came around his stomach from behind. Warm and strong, holding him steady when his knees shook, threatening to dump him to the floor.

"Maybe not." he muttered. "The fuck I'd do?" he dropped the toothbrush and held a palm to his forehead. "Shit, man. Ow!" his other hand splayed atop the vanity but the added support didn't stop him from shaking or his head from bobbing.

"Yeah, sorry." Sam said, wa-ayye to close to Dean's ear for comfort. "Should have warned you not to look directly into the light." he held tight despite Dean's half-hearted attempts to squirm free "You wanna sit?"

"Um." he shuffled one foot backwards. "Good…..idea." he gave up the fight and let his knees buckle. Had Sam not been holding him, he would have landed ass-heavy on the floor. But Sam was there, his arms strong and he deposited Dean safely on the side of the tub.

"Hey." Sam wet a washcloth with cold water and when Dean didn't take the hand-out, refolded it and laid in across the back of Dean's neck who kept his head down. "Been over a week."

"What?"

"Since your concussion. You probably don't remember right now, but you had two blows to the head within a couple of days. It knocked you off your feet. I mean literally, it knocked you on your ass." he paused. "And when you're feeling better, that's a story you're going to tell me." his tone promised force would be used if necessary. "Really Dean? Some toothless, no-necked beer-back who's all belly and no brawn gets the best of you?" he waited but when Dean didn't bite, he went on. "So, anyway, Cas said there was nothing he could do. There was no injury to heal, just a concussion. I know, I know, doesn't make a lot of sense. A concussion is an injury but….." Sam spread his arms helplessly. "It's Cas. You figure him out."

"What?" yeah, he really wasn't up to following or holding a detailed conversation.

"So, not ready for direct light yet." Sam commented, putting toothpaste on the brush and handing it to Dean. "Progress though, got up on your own."

"Go away."

Sam hesitated then decided it would be wise to obey. Not because he feared Dean's ability to do him harm, but because he feared Dean would try to wrestle him and end up hurting himself. "You need me…..." another glare of doom and death and Sam back-pedaled to the door. "Need me or need anything, just thump something, okay?" he waited, half way out the door. "Dean? Come on, I'm not leaving until you agree."

"Yeah, sure…..go." he waited. Sam waited. Silence stretched. Finally Sam nodded and closed the door behind him with a soft snick. Once he was alone, Dean blew his breath out and pulled the cloth from his neck to wipe his face. Concussion wow. How? Who had hit him and with what? He poked all eight fingers, toothbrush clenched between his teeth, all over his head, searching for lumps and bumps or stitches, hell even a sore spot. Nothing. Well shit, if he'd had such a bad, god-awful concussion, shouldn't there be, you know, stitches or staples or adhesive, hell, at least a bandage? He dropped his arms, elbows resting on his thighs; Sam had said it'd been a week, hadn't he?

"Dean?" Sam called through the door, knuckles rat-a-tat-tatting softly. "You need me?"

"Bugger off!"

Where the hell were all those damn memories now? Let's see…okay…..there'd been a bar, a card game, oooooh, right, a fight, a bumbling Barney Fife, aah, let's see, Mrs. Barney Fife, a doctor….oh boy, more than one doctor – right, the hospital and Granma, aka Maggie. No wonder Sam was clinging like self-stick saran wrap. Well, not much he could do about anything right now. Trying to think, and forcing himself to remember, made his head really throb and he wondered if Sam would let him have some aspirin. Like he should have to ask! But he knew without looking, he'd find no pain-relievers anywhere in the bathroom. Sam wouldn't leave them within easy reach; nope, not dear ole Sammy, the damn sensitive, over-protective pain in the ass.

Focus Dean, can't be too hard to come up with a way to coax some aspirin out of Jolly Green who's lost in the valley of wallow and sorrow.

Right, okay, so, in a nutshell, he didn't know where he was, how he'd gotten there, how long he'd been there or when he could leave. Yup, he sure was doing Grreeatt! Obviously he was going to be all right, or he'd be in the hospital; Sam would have seen to that. Aah, well, he was too tired to care about doing anything other than washing up and going back to bed. He thumbed his eyelids closed; a drummer was dancing to the beat of a different drum inside his skull. What was the harm in taking something for a slight headache? Slight? Yeah, right, you keep telling yourself that.

There! Dean nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, all was well. He was well. Well, he was if he ignored his head.

Oh. He paused, yeah, there was one problem – The Great Wall of Sam. Admitting to a headache would turn Sam all Florence Nightingale and Dean just didn't feel up to being an obedient patient. He shoved to his feet, held to the vanity with one hand and succeeded in a passable brushing of his teeth. Didn't matter, nothing mattered. Sam was in charge and like it or not, Dean had to accept it. He rinsed his mouth with water, then mouthwash; much better, no fuzzy teeth, no foul taste, no slick tongue, gums all tingly. Now…..he eyed the tub. He wore two articles of clothing…..how hard would it be to remove them and take a shower?

Um, hello, arms and legs talking here. No shower without us and we ain't helping; FYI big guy, not going to happen unless you want Sam's help. Dean shuddered. Shower with his brother? Not while he still drew breath. Okay, so new plan, a bath. Oooh, with bubbles, lots of bubbles and something to drink, wheedle some aspirin and he was good to go!

"SAM!" he called. "We got any bubbles?!"