CHAPTER FIVE
Dean woke up to the bitter antiseptic smell of a hospital and the sweeter sight of his kid brother passed out with his head pillowed on Dean's cot.
Still alive, then; both of them. Dean wasn't a praying man, but that didn't mean he didn't send a little thanks heavenward now and then.
His own body felt sluggish, like a car engine still warming up. He recognized the pleasant muddled feeling of quality drugs, and he could feel bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders.
Sam's dark hair was spread out on the white bedclothes, his face pressed down into the sheets. He'd slept that way ever since he was little. Dean used to turn him over, afraid that he'd suffocate, but Sam always ended up in the same position anyway, so Dean had eventually quit trying.
A wave of affection and gratitude swept over him, and he couldn't stop his hand from reaching out to rest gently on top of Sam's hair.
Sam twitched at the touch, mumbled something, and Dean took his hand away as his brother yawned and raised his head. Apprehension swept over Dean, and he was suddenly afraid that Sam would still jerk away, deny this reality.
"Dean," Sam yawned.
"Yeah, wake up Sleeping Beauty. Go find your own cot, wouldja?" Dean watched him carefully.
"You've been asleep for a long time."
"How long?"
"Coupla days." He straightened – a muscle popped in his back – and Dean saw that Sam's wrist was casted and in a sling that immobilized most of his left side. That collarbone really was broken, then.
"Ah geez, didn't that hurt to sleep like that?"
Sam glanced down and looked a little surprised to see all the bandaging. "No, they got me on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers," he admitted.
"Oh, good, I guess. About the drugs, I mean." Dean cleared his throat, looked at the blank TV, the ceiling, the curtains of the room. "Sam," he started, and hesitated. "Are you – are you, uh, are you …?"
A little of the sleep still clouding Sam's eyes cleared, and he looked down.
"You mean, am I still thinking this isn't real?"
His brother nodded, and Sam shook his head. "No. I felt it when the witch died."
"What?" Dean said sharply.
Sam swallowed.
"She's dead."
The words stayed there. Dean wasn't sure what to say. He was navigating unknown waters. He felt like he always was, these days, with Sam. It hadn't always been that way.
"I'm sorry."
Sam looked surprised. "Why? It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault."
"No," Dean said. He looked at the ceiling. "We should have gone into this with a better plan – before this whole thing started. We had no idea what we were walking into."
"We usually don't," Sam pointed out.
"I know. I think – We've been slacking. Dad taught us better than that." The words stuck on the roof of Dean's mouth.
Sam waited.
"I mean, is all, it took me so long to get to you, and you got stuck there, and it was a dumbass plan in the first place – " Dean struggled to finish; his eyelids were drooping. Stupid drugs. "We got to step up our game, is what I mean."
"We can do that," Sam said. "Just rest up, hey? We got a lot ahead of us."
"I know. Sam, man." Just had to get this last bit out before the drugs pulled him under. "Glad you're back."
"Me too."
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A/N: Hope you enjoyed, and please consider leaving some thoughts!