It took Dean a minute to realize that he was awake. His eyes were shut, and opening them seemed like a lot of work. Everything was tight with a dull ache that he suspected should have been worse, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The air smelled sharp and sterile, and there was a soft, faraway beep of machinery—even half-asleep and light-headed, it was easy to add it all together and come up with hospital.

Deciding he should probably figure out what was going on, Dean finally convinced his eyes to open. A couple of blinks focused a blur of shapes into white walls, a few more tubes and needles poking out of him than he was really comfortable with, and a thirteen year-old slumped in the chair beside him with his face in his hands. "Sam?" he said.

Well, that was what he meant to say, anyway. It came out as more of a wheeze, but Sam's head jerked up like he'd been slapped. "Dean?" The kid looked awful. His eyes were watery and red, rimmed with tired circles, his nose was red and his hair was a mess. A broken little smile cracked its way across his face as he met Dean's eyes. "You're awake," he breathed like he almost couldn't believe it. "Are you…" His gaze travelled down the length of the bed and back. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—" Dean began and broke into a dry, rasping cough.

Sam's eyes widened in fear for a moment, then a straw was being pressed to Dean's lips and he inhaled the cool water greedily. He blinked again and Sam was inches away, holding a glass, concern shining from under that mop of hair. "Are you alright?" he asked worriedly. "I can call the nurse—"

Dean waved a hand weakly. "'m fine," he assured him. "Water's good." He blinked again, pleased when the focus settled this time instead of blurring away. "What happened?"

"It was a demon," Sam said softly. His eyes stayed on Dean's face, but his hands moved up to latch onto his arm above the IV. "On the Hilson farm."

Dean nodded. Right. That was a hunt that had gone all kinds of wrong. All the signs had pointed to a poltergeist, and they had been woefully underprepared for the demon they ran into. Thank goodness Dad had sensed something was off and made Sam wait in the car. Dean had flashes of flying into furniture and through windows, and he was pretty sure farm equipment had come into the mix at some point—it got a little fuzzy after the third knock into the ceiling. "Right. I remember. 's Dad okay?" Sam sniffed and nodded. "Good." He looked more closely at Sam and saw his lower lip trembling. "Hey, what's wrong?" Sam's eyes ducked away, roaming down the bed again before meeting his and Dean got it. He hitched up a smile. "What? It's not the first time I've been in a hospital."

Sam shook his head dejectedly, his fingers tightening around Dean's forearm. "But not like this…Dean, you…" He sniffed back a nose full of snot that Dean would have found funny if the kid didn't look so miserable. "I thought you were gonna die," he whispered. "You were asleep for three days, and you lost so much blood—and the doctors kept—and your head—and when your heart stopped yesterday—and they didn't think—they weren't sure if you would—and—and—" He was rambling, breath starting to hitch in his throat, and Dean reached out and looped his fingers around his wrist.

"Hey, hey," he soothed. "Inhale, kiddo." Sam's shoulders jerked and he made a choking sound before he managed to take in a gulp of air. Dean watched him for a moment before adding, "Let it out, man."

Sam exhaled, and after a few ragged breaths was breathing normally again. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down. He didn't seem aware of the fact that his fingers had started gently kneading Dean's arm. One hand kept at it as he lifted the other to wipe his nose with his sleeve. "I just...Nobody was sure if you were gonna be okay, and I was so scared you…" His voice trailed off and he looked up again, eyes shining with three days' worth of worry and unshed tears.

Dean tugged on Sam's wrist, too weak to actually move him, but Sam collapsed forward onto his shoulder anyway. His arm wound around Dean's neck and after a few seconds, a patch of moisture started spreading across the shoulder of Dean's gown, Sam shaking softly. With a grunt, Dean raised the arm not pinned under his little brother and hugged him back. "It's okay, Sammy, I'm still here," he assured him. "I'm sorry I scared you, but don't worry, man, I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" came a muffled, childish voice from somewhere near his armpit.

Dean huffed a short laugh, although it made his chest hurt. Yeah, there had definitely been some defibrillator action going on there. Sam looked up and Dean smiled fondly. "Promise."

Relief shone in Sam's eyes, and he stood up again, wiping at his eyes and his nose. His other hand stayed gripped on Dean's arm, like he was afraid to let him go.

"So, uh," Dean coughed. "Where's Dad?"

A frown chased Sam's smile away. "After you got out of surgery, he went back to take out the demon. He called this morning—said he was done and would be back tomorrow."

Dean didn't push for more. Sam and Dad had started butting heads lately, and he was obviously upset at Dad's choice of absence. To be honest, so was Dean, even if he figured Dad wouldn't have left if he thought Dean was going to die. Could've mentioned it to Sam before he left, though.

So, change of topic… "You know I'm the one who got stabbed with the pitchfork, right? Why do you look like crap?" His gaze travelled critically up and over Sam. "Have you slept at all?"

Sam ducked his head, all the answer Dean needed. "For three days?" He shook his head. "I don't know if I should be touched or if I should smack you in the head." He narrowed his eyes in mock consideration. "Bring your head over here so I can slap it."

Sam laughed in spite of himself, and Dean grinned. That was what he'd been after. With an enormous effort, he pushed himself up and scooted over on the bed, a sharp burning making him very aware of the fact he had stitches now. A lot of them. Oh yeah, that pitchfork in the gut and the desk to the ribcage just came screaming back. Still…He patted the bed next to him. "Get up here, man, before you pass out."

"Dean, I…" His obvious exhaustion and a desire to be close to his brother warred with worry in his eyes.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Did you see how much work it took me to move over? Don't make me suffer in vain, Sam."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked up, and he gingerly climbed up onto the bed, careful not to jostle the IV or anything that looked important as he settled down next to Dean. Now that he was a teenager, he was starting to pick up a little in the height department, but he was still scrawny as hell—helpful at this point, since there wasn't a lot of room.

Dean lifted an arm and let Sam lean in against his shoulder. His arm draped along his brother's and he felt something odd in the crook of Sam's elbow. "What happened to your arm?" he asked, fingering the bright blue bandage.

"Hmm?" Sam looked down. "Oh. It's…" He shrugged.

"Sam."

Sam looked up at the IV drip above them and shifted a little closer. "You lost a lot of blood," he said softly.

Dean blinked. "Did you…?"

Sam nuzzled his head back into Dean's shoulder. "Not as much as you needed—they said I was too small to give you enough, but…as much as I could."

Dean felt a warmth spreading across his chest that had nothing to do with broken ribs and stitches. He pulled Sam against his chest, pressing his face into his little brother's hair and squeezing his eyes shut. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered, and no, his voice did not crack at all.

Sam wrapped an arm around his chest and hugged him back, fingers clenching in the hospital gown. "I'm glad you're okay, Dean," he whispered.

Dean kissed the top of his head—light enough that it could be denied if it ever came up—and rubbed his arm. "You're awesome, dude." He shot a glance down the bed, where somewhere in the minute since Sam had joined him, he'd been half-buried in a tangle of little brother. "You're also a friggin' octopus, you know that?"

Sam gave an amused snort but didn't move, and if he needed to cling onto Dean until he was sure he was okay, then Dean wasn't going to deny him that—even if he was holding on just a little too tight around those broken ribs. He didn't really want to let go of Sammy anyway. He settled back into the pillow, head resting lightly on top of Sam's, and fell asleep to the sound of his little brother's congested snoring.