December 1996
There was a cardboard Santa dancing on the wall.
Actually, some distant, logical part of his muddled brain offered, it was probably not really dancing. Maybe there was a draft, or maybe he was really, really sedated.
Dean raised his head fractionally from the pillow and squinted at the thing. It was garishly colorful and covered in glitter, a failed attempt to bring the cheer of the season to the ICU. It also had red, bulging cheeks, and grinned like someone on more drugs than he was.
If his brother had put that there, he was going to kill him.