Sam hated this. He hated feeling this way. He wanted to be inured to this. To be numb. He held Dean's un-casted hand. Wouldn't cry.
Nurses adjusted, checked, charted. Dean was still unresponsive. Machines moved his chest, filled his lungs.
How often had he been here, waiting? Ten times? Twenty? He'd lost track.
They said he'd wake up. They reduced the sedatives. He told them to up the pain management because he knew what it was like when Dean woke confused, in pain.
Dean's fingers jerked. His eyelids moved.
He remembered this feeling and laughed. Being numb was worth shit.