Pam bustled into Sam's room, herding Dean along in front of her.
"Like the doctor said, your brother is going to be fine. It was a nasty fall, but nothing life-threatening." Pam touched the I.V. line running into the back of Sam's hand, ran a check on his vitals.
"It would be good if he woke up, though. Being unconscious due to injuries is never good when it goes on too long." She frowned at Dean, standing silently next to the bed. "You could talk to him; that might help."
Dean nodded. His eyes dropped to his brother's unconscious form.
SUPNSUPNSUPN
Dean pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, dropping his face into his hands with a sigh.
The sight of his brother in a hospital bed is something he's never gotten used to. It's a disturbing reminder of his little brother's mortality. A reminder of the hellish night Sam hadn't survived.
A night he himself hadn't survived; at least, not for long.
He looked at Sam, who showed no signs of waking.
Talk, the nurse had said. Talk.
What the fuck could he say to him?
How the hell had things gotten so messed up?
SUPNSUPNSUPN
Sam dragged himself back to consciousness.
He didn't really want to. It felt good, drifting. No one yelling at him. No one disappointed in him. Just soft, warm safe oblivion.
Thing was – someone kept talking at him, keeping him from sinking.
On and on.
Talking.
He couldn't even understand what they were saying, just knew they wouldn't shut up.
He pried his eyes open and stared blearily up at the ceiling.
"Sam?"
With a great effort, he turned his head to the side.
Dean.
"Sammy, you okay?"
Tears stung the back of Sam's eyes, then spilled over.
God.
Still alive.