-1
All in a (Hard) Day's Work
This hospital room is more confining and daunting than he's ever remembered one to be; more intimidating than any hospital room should be. There's about two-pace room from one side of it to the other, mustard-yellow curtains pulled tightly across the window by the bed so that no sunlight can enter and enlighten you with even the slightest hint of cheerfulness.
And it's down right depressing him.
Sam hasn't shown his face in three days, but Hell, it's only a minor injury and Dean doesn't need anyone to hold his hand. Well, that's what you get for letting a ghost run you over in your own car, isn't it?
Figures Sam's probably gone to finish it off. Good riddance to the bitch, he thinks.
The poltergeist, that is. Not Sam.
Still, would be nice if Sammy was the one to take the cake for once, because Dean's sure as Hell sick of getting beaten every fight. Damned broken rib he's been harbouring since Missouri.
Well, now it is a broken rib, ankle, collar bone, minor lung puncture and major concussion. Being hit by cars just wasn't his thing, but y'know.
It's all in a day's work.
Except it's been more than a day, and the painkillers that Legs (the name he's officially come to know the nurse who had signed them in the night Sammy had brought him in by) has given him haven't even begun to work yet.
He doubts they will. He's probably immune to them, they've been self-medicating for years now. Since Sammy was little, and their hospital insurance refused to cover them anymore (said eight broken collarbones, nineteen hospital stays, and at least two hundred prescriptions since the summer John started hunting was probably enough).
And there's nothing else to stare at in here except the stains on the walls, and he seriously doesn't want to know where they came from.
Seriously.
Damn Sam and his neglecting to keep Dean from harm's way. Damn him.