\\This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant. And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal, but we deal, we deal
The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant. And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal, But we deal, we deal\\

Dean wakes in a hospital bed, Dr. Wilson to surgery 5 STAT ringing in his ears, scratchy hospital sheets irritating his skin. He opens his eyes and sees his brother sitting next to his bed in an uncomfortable hospital chair, face buried in his hands. Sam looks up sharply when Dean groans, the first words out of his mouth, "I hope you got the license plate on that truck, man."

Sam's lips twitch up in a valiant attempt at a smile. "You're all right."

"Of course I am, Sammy. It'll take more than a. . . whatever-it-was to take me down." He looks his brother up and down, sees finger-shaped bruises around his throat, scratches on his face and down his arms. "You, on the other hand. . ."

"I'm fine." Sammy assures him. "Dean, it wasn't what we thought it was."

His brother shoots him a no shit look. "I kinda guessed that when it hit me from behind, Sammy. Ghosts usually can't do that."

"I think it was a dryad." Sam says. "She thought we were going to hurt her tree."

Dean sighs. "Great. So why's she murdering people, if she's not the vengeful ghost of that murdered baroness or whatever?"

"I don't know." Sam says, and something in his eyes shifts. "I'm just glad you're all right."

"Oh god, can we not do this now?" He knows where this is going. There's only two places Sammy's mind goes when Dean gets hurt, as in seriously hurt: chick-flick, or that other place that neither he nor Dad will listen to. From the way Sammy's face gets that determined expression instead of looking sheepish at his remark, it is definitely not going there time.

"Why are we doing this, Dean?"

Here we go. "Sammy, you know why--"

"Yeah, I do." His little brother cuts him off, and there's something about him, something that's changed since he hit puberty and got that huge growth spurt, that puts Dean on edge. He thinks it's a combination of Sammy not hero-worshipping him as much as he used to and him going into a rebellious stage. Whatever it is, it makes Dean miss the times before, before Sam got all hung up on being normal. "I know why Dad does it, Dean. He's on this useless crusade to find Mom's killer, but what good is it gonna do us, huh? You don't think he's screwing us over, making us grow up like this? And you just go right along with it!"

They've had this conversation before, though not usually this vocal. Usually it's in half-sentences and shared looks, and usually it's Sammy ranting about Dad to Dean, not Sammy railing on both of them.

Dean's getting a headache. "Sammy, I can't talk about this right now, okay?"

His brother glares at him. "Well, when are we going to talk about?"

"How about 'never'?" Dean says, and it comes out harsher than he would have liked, but Sammy has been wearing on his last nerve for a while now.

Sammy's eyes grow cold. "Fine," he snaps, and his voice is like a thousand lashes on Dean's back. "Forget it." He stands, and is out the door before Dean can come up with a reply. Not that he'd have found one, given all the time in the world.

Dean doesn't quite understand why his little brother is so fixated on the mythical normal, but he does know that Sammy won't back off for long. He knows it's only a matter of time before things come to a head for them, and that something is going to break when it does.

He wishes he knew how to stop it.