By the time they let Sam into the ICU to see Dean, two hours have passed. The nurse, an apple-cheeked brunette about Dad's age, tells him that he'll have 15 minutes and then she's kicking them both out to get dry clothes, food and sleep. He's suddenly aware of how long it's been since he had any of those things.

They round the corner and Sam gets his first glimpse of Dean. The ventilator tube is the first thing that draws his eye. He's not surprised, not really, but it's still upsetting. Dean looks so small, so fragile beneath the wires and tubes and tape. Dean's the least fragile person Sam knows. He blinks back hot, unwelcome tears.

The nurse walks briskly into the cubicle and picks up Dean's chart. She writes down the numbers on the monitors and checks the IV line in Dean's left hand. Dad's dozing in a chair on the other side of the bed. Sam reaches out and takes Dean's hand. "Hey," he says softly, not wanting to wake Dad. "You did it, man. Hardest part's over. All you gotta do now is get better. You can handle that, right? You against a bunch of tiny little germs--that's barely a fair fight. You can totally take 'em. You just gotta fight, that's all. Kick ass and take names, just like you always do. Okay?" He squeezes Dean's hand. His skin is still so blazing hot. "They're gonna kick us out soon, but we'll be back after sunrise. Dad and I...man, we look like drowned rats. Probably smell like it too. No wonder they wanna get rid of us." Sam smiles a little, shakes his head. "It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. I promise."

Sam's never broken a promise, not once. He certainly doesn't intend to start now.

x0x0x

The first thing Dean sees is bright, pristine whiteness. He blinks once, twice, three times; it's still there, unceasing, unchanged. Oh, shit...am I dead?

Then he hears a high-pitched beep. And another. And voices.

"I think he's awake."

"About fucking time."

Dean turns his head towards the voices and the oxygen cannula pulls at his nostril. "Wha's go'n on?"

"You're in the hospital," says Dad. "Because you're a complete fucking idiot."

"Dad!" Sam shouts, indignant, but Dad isn't fazed.

"Well, you are. Jesus Christ, kid, you scared the shit out of us. What the hell were you thinking?"

It's coming back to him now, bits and pieces. Cold. Wet. Tree. Lightning. Fear. Pain.

"I'm sorry," Dean tries to say, but his throat is so raw and sore and dry that no discernible words come out. Then Sam's beside him, holding a spoonful of ice chips. Dean takes it gratefully, relishes the cold on his abused throat. He tries again. "'m sorry, Dad."

"Haven't I taught you anything? There's a line between brave and reckless and you were about five miles past it. You ever pull a stunt like this again and a tube down your throat's gonna be the least of your problems, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Dean swallows another couple of ice chips, ducks his head to avoid his father's scowl.

"He said he was sorry, leave him alone," says Sam, glaring at Dad over his shoulder.

Dad's eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted by the arrival of a gorgeous redhead in bright pink scrubs. She grins saucily and picks up his chart from the end of the bed. "Well, look who finally decided to join the party."

"Hey, Michelle," says Sam. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam is definitely not the Winchester who's supposed to be on a first-name basis with hot nurses.

"Michelle" checks his vital signs and his IV line and smiles at him. "Looking good there, handsome. How do you feel?"

Not that great, actually, now that he thinks about it. His throat feels like someone rubbed it with sandpaper, his muscles ache, his chest feels tight and heavy and his head feels fuzzy, like there's a layer of cotton between his senses and the world. He doesn't think he can pull off that many words in a row, so he just says, "Kinda crappy."

"I'll bet," she replies as she writes on his chart. "Bacterial pneumonia's a bitch. Does your chest hurt?"

"No, just kinda tight." He's out of breath by the last word. This sucks. Maybe he is as stupid as Dad says.

She nods. "That'll last for a while, unfortunately. Respiratory therapy will help with that, but the doctor wants you to have a little more recovery time before you start on the tough stuff."

Respiratory therapy? Jesus Christ. He's gotta get strong enough for Dad to sign him out AMA, 'cause he's not putting up with that shit. No way.

She sets his chart back in the holder. "Anything else you want to tell me? Anything that doesn't feel right?"

"His throat hurts," says Sam before Dean's sluggish brain can process the question. "Can you get him more ice chips?"

She smiles, first at Sam and then at Dean. "Sure thing, hon. I'll be right back."

As soon as she's out of the room, Dean reaches out with his free hand and smacks Sam's knee. "Quit flirtin' with the--" Christ, it's hard to talk. "--cute nurse, you perv."

Sam's face lights up and he grins, wide and true. "Dude, she flirted with me first."

"She's usin' you...to get to me."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."