When Dean wakes, he is confused. He's definitely in his own bed, but when did they get back to the Bunker? Taking stock of himself, he finds that his arms and legs ache, and although he has just been sleeping, he is exhausted. There is an ever present pressure just above his right eye, and his entire head is heavy. To be frank, he feels like crap. He opens his eyes slowly a fraction, and is pleased that no harsh light greets him.
He's correct in his assumption that he is in his own bed in the Bunker. The first thing he sees is the Led Zeppelin record sitting on the bureau. A quick glance to his right shows his jacket slung over the desk chair, and his boots lined up beneath it. To his right, Sam sits, very clearly asleep, in an armchair he must have dragged in from the library. His tall frame is hunched over, and his arm is propped on the armrest supporting his chin. Dean watches for a few minutes, content to wait if it means he doesn't have to move. It must have been some hunt to make him this worn out.
Sam suddenly jerks awake, blinking tiredly as his hand reaches out for the phone next to him which has lit up. Dean deduces that it was an alarm, as Sam simply pushes a button and sets it back down again. Pushing his hair out of his face, he looks toward Dean and jumps again, most likely at the fact that Dean is staring back at him. There is a moment where Sam looks from Dean to the phone and back, but Dean simply shakes his head. No, he can't suddenly hear again.
'You're awake,' Sam signs. He repositions himself in the chair, 'how do you feel?'
'Like shit,' Dean signs weakly. He makes a 'W' with three fingers and taps his chin twice, the sign for water. Sam nods and pushes himself up from the chair. He leaves the room, and Dean closes his eyes. His hand automatically finds its way up to his head, which has started throbbing. He feels a line of neat stitches on his forehead just above hi eye, and tries to remember what happened.
Dean opens his eyes as Sam's hand gently takes his away from his head, and guides it back down to his side. Then Sam frowns and places his palm on Dean's forehead. Dean watches his face grimace in concern.
Kinda warm, Dean reads from Sam's lips.
Dean only nudges Sam's arm away and pushes himself into a sitting position, closing his eyes briefly as the change in position causes his head to spin. He takes a sip from the cup of water that Sam has left on the bedside table, and while it's nice on his dry tongue, it only intensifies the scratchiness of his throat, and brings an upset stomach to his attention. He notices Sam waving for his attention.
'What hurts?'
'Head, throat, stomach,' Dean signs, then he points to the stitches and taps his index finger to his thumb a little. Sam nods.
'Nauseous?' Sam asks. Dean shakes his head. Sure, his stomach is a little upset, but he mainly just has the mother of all headaches.
'Can you talk?' Sam signs with a subtle head tilt, eyebrows raising. Dean gives him a look.
'I don't know, can you?' he signs back, rolling his eyes and conveying his sarcasm through his hands as effectively as Sam had communicated his sheepishness. Sam huffs, obviously unamused. 'Try?' he signs.
Dean knows that Sam is only checking for signs of a severe concussion, inability of speech being a major symptom. But Dean barely trusts his voice anymore when he hasn't been concussed. He's allowed at least a little self consciousness.
Dean sighs and lets out a breath. He moves his tongue around and swallows. "Bitch," he says, then clears his throat. Sam smiles, and Dean reads jerk from his lips.
'Enough with the interrogation, I'm fine. What happened?' Dean signs, feeling his energy decrease, and wanting ton know why he feels like shit before he falls asleep again. Sam runs a hand through his hair and collapses back down into the chair.
'Shifter hunt last night,' he begins. Immediately, thoughts begin streaming into Dean's mind. They'd been after what they thought was a spirit, but had actually been a shifter. 'Looked like you, took us –me– by surprise, rammed your head against a wall–' Sam pauses. Dean glances at the clock on the nightstand. 3:37 am. He turns back to Sam.
'I've been out all day?' he signs. He would have thought all the sleep would have done something. He only just woke up, yet feels completely drained. Sam only shakes his head and checks his watch.
'I haven't let you sleep longer than an hour. You haven't really been coherent until now, haven't been able to keep anything down. I'm still not convinced I should't take you to the hospital, especially with that fever.'
Dean is shocked. Sure he feels like crap, but he doesn't remember anything after the abandoned house. Not the car ride back, not waking up every hour, certainly not throwing up. He looks incredulously at Sam.
'List months?' Sam signs. Dean stares at him for a second, but then raises his hands, and opens his mouth. He both speaks and signs all twelve months, not missing a beat or stumbling. The relief that flashes over Sam's face tells Dean just how worried Sam had been. Dean takes his index finger and drags it from his ear to his mouth, the sign for deaf.
'Deaf and concussion don't mix,' he signs. Definitely losing one of his senses was making the entire process harder. Sam nods. He gestures to the laptop that was sitting on the table near his phone.
'Did some to find out how worried I should be. Didn't really find anything because we don't know the cause of your deafness, but it's still a nasty concussion.'
Dean nods, not surprised that there isn't a more concrete answer. There never really ever was in their line of work. "Hey, you– uh– go get some sleep in a real bed," he says, catching the tail end of Sam's yawn. Sam shakes his head, beginning to sign, but Dean cuts him off. "You're done, Sammy, I'm good. You did good," he says, then holds up his phone he'd seen on the bedside table. "I know how to reach you if I need you."
Sam hesitates for a second, then regretfully pushes himself out of the chair. 'I'm coming back to check on you in two hours,' he signs. Dean rolls his eyes and settles back as his brother leaves him alone in the room.