"How are you feeling Dean?" Sam ventured.
"I'm fine, now answer my goddamn question!" Dean's throat was killing him, he felt like he'd chugged gasoline and then lit his tongue on fire. He looked at the faces of the two men (loose translation of the word, he admitted) and took in their wary expressions. It was then that he felt the tug of the IV and the tubes in his arm, felt how hard it was for him to lift his arms up off the bed. Refusing to wait any longer for an explanation, Dean stripped the blankets and sheets off of the bed, revealing his gown and the withered body that he barely recognized as his own. He felt his breath catch in his throat in the midst of a sharp intake and he focused on the pinch of the needle in his arm to keep the shock off of his face. "Can you guys give me a minute?"
He looked up to see Sam give him a nod, his face thoughtful, and Cas' intense stare finally left Dean's face as he followed Sam out into the hallway.
It was then that Dean dared to remove his gown, looking down at his bare skin. His eyes sought out his chest first. Angry, gnarled skin glared up at him. Dean had seen enough injuries to know it wasn't new, and paired with the deteriorated state of the muscles in his arms and legs, making them feel weaker than they ever had, he knew he must have been lying in this bed for quite a while.
He had no recollection of the events that must have unfolded to put him here – the last thing he remembered was when he and Sam had been doing research in the Batcave. Not so much "research" as Dean opening his fifth can of beer in his room while he could hear the faint flutter produced whenever Sam turned a page; something that had become a nearly nightly ritual these days.
Dean wracked his brain, trying to come up with an explanation for the wound beginning to scar and the heaviness of his chest that he felt every time he inhaled-there must have been a few broken ribs at least. He came up with jack shit.
He slowly worked the gown back onto his shoulders and laid back, trying to summon the strength to get up. Just then, a tall, dark-haired man with glasses strolled into the room, holding a chart and clicking a pen. Dean's eyes followed him until he stopped to stand at the foot of the bed, finally looking up.
"Mr. Winchester," the doctor glanced down at his chart again, "it seems you're offering the medical staff a bit of a puzzle."
"Why's that," Dean managed to choke out, not really making it a question, and not really caring to hear the answer. He searched the room in his peripheral vision for a sign of his clothes, planning to leave as soon as the chance presented itself.
"Well, for starters, you shouldn't be conscious." The doctor held Dean's gaze, emanating seriousness. "We'd given you enough sedative to keep a horse down, yet here you are, eyes open, seemingly in control of your mental capacities. I'm also a bit confused as to how you aren't coughing up blood, let alone able to speak to me." The doctor paused to let the information sink it, gauging Dean's reaction (no doubt expecting some surprise).
Dean was less than sorry to disappoint him, "Guess I'm just lucky," he muttered, not trying to hide his accompanying eye roll.
"Lucky, indeed," the doctor agreed, absentmindedly. "Regardless, I'm going to have to keep a close eye on you for the next week or so, at least. For now I'd like to have a listen to your breathing." The doctor had removed his stethoscope from around his neck, moving to place it on each of Dean's shoulder blades. After a few moments, he pulled back with a quizzical look playing across his face. Dean leaned back against his pillows, relieved. "Your lung sounds- well they both sound really strong, actually." The lack of reaction or outburst from Dean was off-putting the man, Dean could tell. He straightened up, preparing to leave. "Well, I'll try to have someone take you up in a few hours for an x-ray. Until then, if you have any questions- I suppose you brother can answer most of them for you. If you have any medical questions, just let the nurses know. I'm Dr. Rodson, I'll be around." With that, the glasses-clad man left the room, and Sam and Cas entered.
"So, are you going to be okay? Did he tell you what happened?" Sam inquired.
"Nope, you'll have to fill me in," Dean stated, "and I'm assuming Cas, here, healed me, so I'll be fine." Dean glanced at Cas, who was gazing out the large window in the wall opposite the door.
"Well," Sam began, "you got in a car wreck, Dean."
"When?"
"Almost two months ago." Dean took in Sam's raised eyebrows and earnest look, decided he must be telling him the truth.
"So I've been in here for two freakin' months?! Why didn't you do something sooner, Cas?" Dean knew he should be thankful the angel had healed him at all, after being MIA ever since they'd rescued Samandriel.
"Dean, I-" Cas began.
Sam cut him off: "We think something might have happened to Cas. We're not sure what yet, but we'll figure it out. You sure you're feeling okay? Cas might not have been able to get you back to your normal self."
"Yes, I can sense that my powers are very much dwindling. Dean, you are going to require some rest before you're at your full capacity." Cas added.
"Forget rest, we've got to figure out what's happened to you, Cas!" Dean began pulling the wires and tubes from his body, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and putting weight on them before Sam or Cas could stop him. Once he was vertical he began to fall, and Cas caught him by the elbow before he could hit the ground. Dean felt lightheaded and he gripped Cas' shoulder for support. "Oh, I'm fine just give me a minute." A few moments passed while Dean waited for the stars to clear, then he set off again with determination, willing himself to stay upright.
And that's when Dean passed out.