Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

The rain pounded against the steel bridge, relentless and cold. Dean barely felt it. He stood there, shoulders hunched against the wind, his face set in a grim mask. 

“All right,” he said, his voice low and rough, the weight of the last few days dragging it down. “Let me hear it.” 

Sam stood a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. He didn’t look at Dean right away, his jaw working as he stared out over the water. 

“What do you want me to say?” Sam finally snapped; his voice sharp. “That I’m pissed? Okay, I am. I’m pissed.” 

Dean braced himself. He’d known this was coming. Hell, he deserved it. 

“You lied to me,” Sam continued, his eyes finally locking onto Dean’s. “Again.” 

Dean swallowed hard. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

Sam laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “I was ready to die, Dean.” 

“I know.” 

“But I wouldn’t let you,” Dean said, his voice rising, raw with emotion. “Because that’s not in me.” 

Sam’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “So, what, you decide to trick me into being possessed by some psycho angel?” 

“He saved your life,” Dean shot back. 

“So what?” Sam’s voice cracked, the anger giving way to something deeper. “I was willing to die.” 

Dean’s chest tightened, the weight of Sam’s words pressing down on him. He didn’t have a response. 

“And now…” Sam hesitated, his voice softer but no less devastating. “Kevin…” 

“No.” Dean’s voice was sharp, cutting through the rain. He stepped closer, his expression fierce. “That is not on you.” 

“Kevin’s blood is on my hands,” Dean said, his voice trembling. “And that ain’t ever getting clean.” 

Sam said nothing, his silence heavier than any words he could’ve spoken. 

“I’ll burn for that. I will,” Dean continued, his voice breaking. “But I’ll find Gadreel, and I’ll end that son of a bitch. But I’ll do it alone.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam demanded. 

Dean’s laugh was bitter, humourless. “Come on, man. Can’t you see? I’m… I’m poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed. Or worse.” 

Sam stared at him, his face unreadable. 

“I tell myself I help more people than I hurt,” Dean continued, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I tell myself I’m doing it for the right reasons, and I believe that. But I can’t… I won’t drag anybody through the muck with me. Not anymore.” 

Sam’s expression hardened. “Go,” he said finally, his voice low and cold. “I’m not gonna stop you. But don’t go thinking that’s the problem, ‘cause it’s not.” 

Dean blinked, his throat tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sam didn’t answer. He turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the rain. 

Dean stood there for a long moment, the storm raging around him. Then he turned, climbed into the Impala, and drove. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The neon sign for the bar flickered in the rain, casting a pale blue glow on the wet pavement. Dean pulled into the lot, his tyres crunching over gravel, and killed the engine. 

Inside, the place was dimly lit and half-empty, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses. Dean made his way to the bar, his boots scuffing against the sticky floor, and slid onto a stool. 

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, a grizzled man with a weathered face. 

“Whiskey,” Dean said. “Leave the bottle.” 

The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He set the bottle and a glass down in front of Dean before moving off to tend to another customer. Dean poured himself a generous glass and downed it in one go, the burn spreading through his chest. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have. 

He poured another. 

You were stupid.

The thought hit him hard, unrelenting. He’d let Gadreel in. He’d trusted him, believed his lies. He’d thought he was saving Sam, but instead, he’d gotten Kevin killed. 

Kevin. 

Just a kid. A kid who’d trusted him, followed him, believed in him.

And now he was dead. 

Crowley warned him, Dean thought bitterly. Warned him to stay away from me. Said I get people killed…. Well, he is right.

Dean took another swig, the whiskey warming his throat. It didn’t dull the ache, though. Nothing could. 

“Hey.” 

Dean glanced up to see a woman standing next to him, a sly smile on her face. She was pretty, with dark hair and red lipstick, her leather jacket clinging to her like a second skin. 

“You look like you could use some company,” she said, leaning against the bar. 

Dean managed a tight smile. “Appreciate it, but I’m not in the mood.” 

The woman’s smile faltered, but she didn’t push. She gave a small shrug and moved on, disappearing into the crowd. 

Dean let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. He poured himself another glass, the whiskey barely registering now. 

I should’ve protected him. Kevin.

The thought gnawed at him, relentless. He’d promised to keep Kevin safe, to be the shield between him and the horrors of the world. Instead, he’d been the one to bring the horrors to Kevin’s doorstep. 

Dean closed his eyes, his head tipping back against the bar. The room was spinning now, the whiskey doing its job, but it didn’t make him feel any better. 

Nothing would. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean stood in the motel room, staring at himself in the cracked mirror above the dresser. His reflection was distorted, the uneven glass stretching his face into something unrecognizable. Maybe that was fitting.

He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the sink as he stared into his own eyes. They looked hollow, sunken, eyes of a man who didn’t recognize himself anymore.

“What the hell are you even doing?” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioning unit. A whiskey bottle sat on the nightstand, the glass beside it still half-full.

Dean looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He flexed his fingers, trying to stop the tremors, but it didn’t help.

He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. It didn’t clear his head. The image of Kevin, crumpled and lifeless on the floor of the bunker, flashed behind his eyelids.

Dean clenched his jaw, gripping the sides of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white.

I killed him.

He didn’t need Sam to say it. Didn’t need Crowley’s smug voice reminding him. The truth was already there, etched into his soul.

Kevin had trusted him. Believed in him. Followed him into the fire, and Dean had repaid that faith with death.

He slammed his fist against the sink, the sharp pain shooting up his arm. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel something, anything other than the crushing guilt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The motel bed was stiff, the sheets scratchy and reeking faintly of bleach. Dean sat on the edge, the whiskey bottle in his hand. He tipped it back, the liquid burning its way down his throat.

The alcohol didn’t help.

He’d thought it might, even for a little while. But it only made the voices in his head louder.

Kevin was just a kid. A damn kid, and you let him down.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his stubble rough against his palm. He felt like he was unravelling, his thoughts spiralling out of control.

You were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to protect all of them.

Lisa. Ben. Ellen. Jo. Kevin. Bobby. Dad. Sam

Their faces blurred together in his mind, a parade of people he’d failed. People who were dead because of him. He took another swig, the bottle slipping slightly in his unsteady hand.

His phone buzzed on the table, pulling him out of his stupor.

Crowley.

Dean let it buzz for a moment before picking it up. “What do you want?”

“Well, someone’s cranky this morning,” Crowley drawled. “Must’ve been quite the night.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Fine,” Crowley said, his tone turning serious. “There’s a situation. I could use your help.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“I’m serious, Dean. There’s a case. Demons, bodies piling up, your kind of gig.”

“Not interested.”

Crowley paused, then let out a sigh. “You really are a mess, aren’t you? Brooding, drinking yourself into oblivion in some dump.”

“I’m not helping you,” Dean said, his voice slurred but firm. 

Crowley chuckled. “Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re too busy wallowing in your own misery, aren’t you?” 

Dean said nothing, his grip tightening on the phone. 

“You know, Dean,” Crowley continued, his tone softening, “Your problem, is that nobody hates you more than you. Believe me, I've tried...” 

Dean’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. 

“Go to hell,” he muttered. 

“Been there, done that,” Crowley said lightly. “But you… you’re already halfway there again, aren’t you?” 

Dean ended the call, his hand trembling as he tossed the phone onto the bed. 

He sat there for a long moment, staring at the cracked wall in front of him. 

Then he grabbed his duffel bag, shoving the bottle inside, and headed for the door. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The parking lot was quiet, the rain having slowed to a light drizzle. Dean stood by the Impala, leaning against the hood as he stared up at the overcast sky. The clouds were thick and heavy, blotting out the stars.

Dean took another swig from the bottle, the whiskey warming his chest but doing nothing to ease the cold knot of guilt in his stomach. He thought about calling Sam. Thought about apologising, about trying to explain. But what would he even say?

Sorry I ruined your life? Sorry I got Kevin killed? Sorry I’m poison?

Dean let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the still night. He tipped the bottle back again, draining the last of the whiskey.

“You’re a real piece of work, Winchester,” he muttered to himself, his voice slurred.

He tossed the empty bottle into the passenger seat and climbed into the car. The leather was cool against his skin, the familiar scent of the Impala wrapping around him like a shroud.

He turned the key, the engine rumbling to life.

Dean didn’t know where he was going. He just needed to drive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the time he hit the highway, the rain had stopped completely. The road stretched out before him, dark and endless, the white lines blurring together in the glow of the headlights.

Dean’s thoughts were a jumbled mess, the whiskey dulling his senses but not the pain.

He thought about Crowley’s words, the demon’s voice echoing in his mind.

“Nobody hates you more than you.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. He hated that Crowley was right.

He hated himself.

He thought about Kevin again, about the way the kid had looked up to him. Trusted him.

You should’ve protected him.

Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He blinked, his vision blurring for a moment before he shook his head, trying to clear it.

The highway signs passed in a blur, their green lettering glowing faintly in the darkness. One of them caught his attention: South Carolina, 1000 miles.

Dean’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. The ocean.

He’d never been much of a beach guy, but the idea of sitting on the sand, staring out at the waves, didn’t sound so bad.

Maybe he’d just keep driving until he hit the water.

Chapter Text

The diner was almost empty, the faint hum of an old jukebox filling the air as Dean stared at the untouched plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a kind smile, had refilled his coffee three times without him asking. He barely noticed.

The food had gone cold, but Dean didn’t care. His stomach churned, and the thought of eating made him nauseous.

He wasn’t sure what town he was in. Somewhere in Georgia, he thought. Or maybe it was still Alabama. He’d stopped paying attention to the road signs weeks ago.

Dean pushed the plate away, the fork clattering against the edge. He pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket, leaving it on the table before walking out into the morning sunlight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Impala’s engine rumbled to life, the familiar growl echoing through the deserted parking lot as Dean steered back onto the highway. The past couple of months had blurred into a relentless grind of cheap motels, endless miles, and bloody knuckles. He’d been drifting from town to town, chasing every lead he could find and working cases that no one else wanted.

A string of cattle mutilations in Mississippi turned out to be a rogue werewolf. A series of drownings in Arkansas led to a vengeful water spirit. A haunted barn in Louisiana left him with a dislocated shoulder and a gash down his forearm when the spirit had gotten too close for comfort.

Dean rubbed the raised scar absentmindedly as he drove, his eyes locked on the road ahead. It wasn’t the worst injury he’d taken in recent weeks, just another reminder of how dangerous it was to hunt without Sam watching his back.

The close calls had been piling up, each leaving him more battered, more worn down, more painfully aware of his solitude. But the bruises, the cuts, and the scars didn’t matter. They were penance.

Between the hunts, he’d been chasing whispers, looking for any sign of Gadreel. But the trail was cold, another failure to add to the growing weight on his shoulders. Dean clenched the steering wheel tighter. He wasn’t just paying for his mistakes; he was drowning in them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nights were the worst. After a hunt, when the adrenaline had faded and the quiet settled in, Dean was left alone with his thoughts. He’d sit in whatever crappy motel room he’d holed up in, nursing a beer or a half-empty bottle of whiskey, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

Kevin’s face haunted him. That wide-eyed, hopeful expression the kid always wore.

Dean had promised to keep him safe. Promised to protect him. And now Kevin was dead, his body cold and lifeless on the bunker floor.

Dean tipped back the bottle in his hand, the burn of the whiskey doing little to numb the ache in his chest. He thought about Sam, wondered if his brother was sleeping any better than he was. Probably not, Dean thought bitterly. Not that Sam would ever call to say so.

Their radio silence had been deafening. Sam hadn’t reached out since the night on the bridge, and Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to be the first to break it. Still, the absence of Sam’s voice, the lack of his presence beside him, was a constant weight pressing down on Dean’s chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days bled into weeks, the road stretching out endlessly before him.

Dean’s reflection in the rearview mirror was almost unrecognizable. His eyes were hollow, his face gaunt from weeks of living on diner coffee and gas station snacks.

He’d stopped shaving regularly, the stubble on his jaw turning into a scruffy beard. His clothes were rumpled and stained, the flannel shirts he rotated through barely holding together.

Dean looked away from the mirror, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

He hadn’t been sleeping much. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Kevin’s face. Or Bobby’s. Or Jo’s. Or Dad’s. Or one of the other hundred people that have died because of him. He saw all the people he’d failed, their deaths piling up on his conscience like a weight he couldn’t escape.

His phone buzzed in the cup holder, the screen lighting up with a text. It was from Cas.

You ok?

Dean stared at the message for a moment before typing back a quick reply: Still breathing.

Cas didn’t respond. Dean didn’t expect him to. The exchanges were always brief, surface-level. Dean didn’t give details, and Cas didn’t ask for them. It was better that way.

Dean tossed the phone back into the cup holder and turned up the volume on the radio, the classic rock station crackling through the speakers as he drove on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The monster had been faster than Dean expected, gaunt, skeletal, with claws like serrated knives and eyes that burned with primal fury. The creature’s claws had come too close, slicing through his side as Dean had driven his machete upward. The blade lodged deep in its chest, silencing its screech in a convulsive, sickening collapse.

Dean pressed his hand against his ribs as blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky. Its guttural snarl still echoed in his ears as he surveyed the wreckage around him.

A young girl’s lifeless body lay sprawled against a tree, her blood dark against the wet earth. Dean’s chest tightened as he looked away, guilt clawing at his insides. He should’ve been faster. She should still be alive.

“Another one,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice breaking. Another innocent dead because of him. Another failure he couldn’t erase.

Staggering to the Impala, he barely registered the gash running from his ribs down his side. It didn’t matter. The blood staining his shirt, the sharp burn with every step, none of it mattered.

The first aid kit in the trunk mocked him with its meagre contents. Dean gritted his teeth as he poured whiskey over the wound, the pain sharp and searing. He didn’t bother with stitches. The gash wasn’t deep enough to warrant the effort.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean stretched out before Dean, the waves crashing against the shore in a rhythmic lullaby. He stood at the water’s edge, his boots planted in the damp sand, staring out at the horizon.

It had taken him three months to get here. Three months of odd jobs, mouldy motels, avoiding people, avoiding Sam.

Dean had never been much of a beach guy, but something about the open water called to him. It felt endless, unjudging. He thought maybe he could lose himself here, let the waves carry away everything he was too tired to hold anymore.

Dean hadn’t planned on calling Sam. He told himself he didn’t need to. He didn’t deserve to.

But the truth gnawed at him, clawing its way to the surface. He missed his brother. Missed the sound of his voice, even if it was angry or cold.

He pulled out his phone. His hands shaking as he dialled Sam’s number, each ring pounding in his ears like a ticking clock.

When Sam picked up, his voice was flat. “Dean.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, trying for casual but failing miserably. His throat felt tight.

There was silence on the other end, heavy and expectant.

“I, uh... I just wanted to check in,” Dean said finally. “See how you’re doin’.”

“Three months, and now you want to check in?” Sam’s tone was sharp, cutting through Dean like a knife.

Dean clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I guess I deserve that.”

“You think?” Sam snapped.

Dean grimaced, his free hand raking through his hair. “Look, I know I screwed up, okay? I’ve been screwing up for a long time. I just... I wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”

Sam sighed, the sound crackling through the phone. “Dean, what do you want from me? You want me to say everything’s fine? That I forgive you? Because I can’t.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling?”

Dean hesitated, staring out at the waves. “I don’t know, man. Maybe I just wanted to feel like we’re still...” He trailed off, the word sticking in his throat.

“Family?” Sam finished bitterly. “You say that like it’s some sort of cure-all, like it can change the fact that everything that has ever gone wrong between us has been because we’re family.”

Dean winced but didn’t argue. Sam wasn’t wrong.

Sam continued, his voice hard. “You think you’re my saviour, my brother, the hero. You swoop in, and even when you mess up, you think what you’re doing is worth it because you’ve convinced yourself you’re doing more good than bad. But you’re not.”

“I know,” Dean said quietly.

“Do you?” Sam shot back. “Kevin’s dead, Crowley’s in the wind, and we’re no closer to beating this angel thing. Please tell me Dean, what’s the upside of me being alive?”

Dean’s chest tightened, his grip on the phone trembling. “You kidding me? You and me... fighting the good fight together.”

Sam’s laugh was bitter. “Just once, be honest with me. You didn’t save me for me. You did it for you.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse.

“I was ready to die. I was ready. I should have died. But you... you didn’t want to be alone, and that’s what all this boils down to. You can’t stand the thought of being alone.”

Dean felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

“All right,” Sam said after a pause, his tone colder now. “I’ll give you this much. You are certainly willing to do the sacrificing as long as you’re not the one being hurt.”

Dean’s voice was a low growl. “You wanna be honest? If the situation were reversed and I was dying, you’d do the same thing.”

“No, Dean,” Sam said, his voice cutting like glass. “I wouldn’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dean closed his eyes, the ache in his chest spreading like wildfire. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “Yeah, I guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t try to save me. I mean... all it takes is to hit a dog, right? Then it’s Dean who?”

“Dean—” Sam started, but Dean didn’t let him finish.

He hung up, the sound of the disconnect echoing in his ears as he stared down at the phone in his hand.

The pain inside him was raw, unrelenting. He felt it bubble up, white-hot and consuming. He hurled the phone into the ocean, it hit the water with a splash, sinking beneath the waves.

Dean turned away; his shoulders hunched as he walked back to the Impala. The sun was setting now, casting the beach in shades of orange and red.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, his head resting against the steering wheel as he let out a shuddering breath.

The waves crashed in the distance, steady and unchanging.

Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear into them.

Chapter Text

The first few weeks without Dean were both a relief and an anchor around Sam’s neck.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no one second-guessing his every move, no one dragging him into reckless decisions or dangerous shortcuts. Sam could finally breathe, make his own choices without being overshadowed by Dean’s need to take charge.

But it also felt wrong.

The bunker was empty in a way Sam hadn’t anticipated. Every creak of the walls echoed too loud, and the silence was oppressive. He busied himself with research, poured over Men of Letters files, and when that wasn’t enough, he called Cas.

The angel arrived without question, his concern for Dean palpable but unspoken. Sam didn’t want to talk about Dean either, so they hunted instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their first hunt together was a simple one, an isolated vampire nest preying on late-night travellers along an old Oklahoma back road. It should’ve been quick, but without Dean, it felt harder than it needed to be.

The initial two vampires went down without much trouble, their reflexes dulled by hunger. Sam’s machete swung true, severing their heads in clean arcs. But the third one was different, faster, stronger.

Sam swung his machete, but the vampire sidestepped and slammed him into a tree. The breath left his lungs in a painful rush as its hand went to his throat. Sam clawed at the creature’s arm, his vision dimming, black spots creeping in at the edges.

A gunshot rang out, loud and sharp in the still night. The vampire flinched, its grip loosening enough for Sam to drop to his knees, gasping for air.

Before the creature could recover, Castiel appeared behind it, his machete flashing in the moonlight. One clean swing and the vampire’s head hit the dirt. Its body crumpled beside it.

“Are you injured?” Cas asked, his brow furrowed.

“I’m fine,” Sam grunted, pressing a hand to his throat. “Let’s just burn the thing and go.”

Cas didn’t push, but Sam could feel his watchful gaze the entire time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days blurred together after that.

Sam threw himself into hunts, werewolves, shapeshifters, poltergeists. Some were simple, others brutal. He slept in motels or the Continental, barely eating, barely resting. It wasn’t about the hunts themselves; it was about staying busy, staying distracted.

But no matter how much he tried to bury himself in work, the memories followed him.

He’d close his eyes and see Kevin’s face. Hear his voice. Feel the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

The nightmares started a few weeks after Dean left. Kevin, even people he’d never met. Sam saw himself killing them all, their blood on his hands.

He’d wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, his heart racing. And when he finally calmed down, there was no one there to talk him down, no Dean in the next room with a bottle of whiskey and a sarcastic remark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam didn’t reach out. He told himself it was because he was angry, that Dean didn’t deserve his forgiveness after everything that had happened. But deep down, it was more than that.

He was afraid.

Afraid of what he’d say if Dean picked up. Afraid of what Dean wouldn’t say.

So instead, he leaned on Cas. The angel didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t push Sam to talk about things he wasn’t ready to face.

But it wasn’t the same.

No one could replace Dean.

The hunt was straightforward. Something Sam used to call a milk run, back when Dean was around to roll his eyes and crack a joke about it. A vengeful spirit haunting an abandoned farmhouse just outside of town.

Cas took the lead, the shotgun blasting through the apparition with practiced ease. Sam followed, covering the perimeter and salting the remains.

It was quick. Clean.

And yet Sam couldn’t shake the emptiness that settled in his chest as they drove back to the motel.

“You’ve been quiet,” Cas said, breaking the silence.

Sam glanced at him. “Yeah, well, nothing new there.”

Cas frowned. “You’re angry.”

“No kidding,” Sam muttered.

“At Dean?”

Sam gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles whitening. “At Dean, at myself, at... all of it. He just doesn’t get it, Cas. He doesn’t get what it’s like to be dragged back when you’re ready to let go. He makes these decisions, and people die for them.”

Cas’s gaze was steady. “Dean is doing what he thinks is right.”

Sam let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, his version of ‘right’ got Kevin killed. And probably a dozen other people we don’t even know about.”

Cas didn’t respond, his silence heavy.

Sam sighed, his anger burning low but constant. “I dream about him, you know. Kevin. About killing him. About killing people I don’t even recognise. Every night, Cas.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

Cas’s expression softened. “That isn’t your fault, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the people I see in my dreams,” Sam muttered, pulling into the motel parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Dean finally called after three months, Sam wasn’t ready.

He’d been angry for so long that it was the first thing that came out, sharp and unforgiving.

“Why now?” Sam had snapped. “Why even bother calling after all this time?”

Dean’s response had been defensive, but there was something else under it, something fragile. Sam ignored it, too consumed by his own frustration to care.

The conversation spiralled from there, words flying too fast, cutting too deep.

And then Dean said it.

"Yeah, I guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t try to save me. I mean... all it takes is to hit a dog, right? Then it’s Dean who?"

The words hit Sam like a punch to the gut. He froze, his breath catching in his throat, and before he could say anything, before he could even think, Dean hung up.

The silence that followed was deafening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks later, Sam was still replaying that call in his head.

He hadn’t meant for it to end like that. He hadn’t meant to hurt Dean, but now it was too late to fix it.

Dean wasn’t answering his calls, wasn’t responding to Cas either.

It was like he’d disappeared.

Sam sat in the Continental, staring at his phone. He’d dialled Dean’s number twice already, but he hadn’t pressed call.

Cas was in the passenger seat, silent but clearly aware of Sam’s turmoil.

“You should try again,” Cas said softly.

Sam shook his head. “He’s not going to pick up.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Sam’s voice was bitter. “He’s done, Cas. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”

Cas frowned, but he didn’t argue.

Sam let out a shaky breath, his grip tightening on the phone. “I didn’t mean it, you know. What I said. But he thinks I did.”

“He’ll come around,” the angel said softly.

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “You think?”

“Yes,” Cas said firmly. “Dean may be stubborn, but he doesn’t give up on family.”

Sam stared at him, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, well, maybe he should.”

Cas’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue.

“Dean knows you care about him,” Cas said.

“Does he?” Sam’s laugh was hollow. “Because right now, I don’t think he does. And honestly, I don’t know if I can blame him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The call came in the early evening, shattering the bunker’s oppressive quiet. Sam had spent the day in the archives, burying himself in half-translated texts and grimoires that offered no solutions and no distractions from his own thoughts. The phone’s sharp buzz startled him, dragging him out of his haze.

“Hello?” Sam answered, his voice rough from hours of silence.

“Is this Sam Winchester?”

The voice on the other end was calm, clinical, a doctor, Sam realized. His stomach clenched.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said cautiously.

“This is Dr. Melanie Hargrove from Prisma Health Greenville Memorial Hospital in South Carolina. I’m calling about a patient we admitted earlier today… Dean Winchester.”

Sam’s heart stopped. “Dean?” His voice cracked on the name.

“Yes. We found an emergency contact card in his wallet with your number listed. Are you familiar with him?”

“Yeah, he’s my…” Sam’s words faltered. Brother? Estranged brother? Would that even matter right now? “Yeah, I know him. What… what happened? Is he okay?”

There was a pause, and Sam felt the weight of it like a stone in his chest.

“He’s in critical condition,” Dr. Hargrove said carefully. “Mr Winchester was found this morning at the base of a waterfall in the Greenville area. He appears to have been there overnight before he was discovered by a group of hikers. He was hypothermic and unresponsive when paramedics arrived.”

Sam sank into the nearest chair, his legs too weak to hold him. “A waterfall?” he echoed dumbly.

“We’re not certain what caused the fall,” she continued. “There’s no indication of foul play, but based on the scene and his injuries… there’s reason to believe it may have been intentional.”

Sam couldn’t breathe. “Intentional?”

“There were no signs of anyone else being involved, and the location isn’t a common hiking spot. However, we can’t say for sure.”

“Right,” Sam murmured, though the word barely made it past his lips.

“I need to be clear about the severity of his condition,” Dr. Hargrove said, her tone softening. “Mr Winchester has suffered multiple injuries in the fall, thoracic spinal fracture, a broken ankle, and a head injury resulting in a brain bleed. He’s currently in a coma, and we’re monitoring him closely, but the prognosis is uncertain. He also has an older wound on his ribs that’s severely infected, and he’s malnourished. These factors have complicated his condition.”

Sam’s head spun, the words blurring together in a cacophony of dread. Brain bleed. Spine fracture. Coma. He latched onto the only thing he could form a coherent thought around. “Will he… Is he going to make it?”

There was another pause, longer this time.

“I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but right now, we just don’t know. We’re doing everything we can.”

Sam pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. “Jesus,” he whispered, his mind racing. “I… I need to get there. I’m in Kansas. It’ll take me some time to…”

“Of course,” Dr. Hargrove said. “He’s stable right now, but I recommend getting here as soon as possible. If you have any questions, you can call the ICU directly. I’ll make sure the nursing staff know to expect you.”

“Thank you,” Sam said faintly, though the words felt hollow.

As the call ended, Sam sat frozen, the phone still clutched in his hand. His mind churned with every worst-case scenario imaginable.

Sam didn’t remember moving to the kitchen, but suddenly he was there, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turned white. His breath came in short gasps, and his chest felt like it was caving in.

Dean. In a coma. Alone in some hospital in South Carolina.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay calm, but the doctor’s words echoed in his head.

“There’s reason to believe it may have been intentional.”

The knife of guilt that had been twisting in Sam’s gut for months buried itself deeper.

Did I push him to this?

Sam replayed their last conversation for the hundredth time, the anger, the bitterness. Dean’s parting words, cutting, raw, and laced with pain, were seared into his memory.

"Yeah, I guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t try to save me. I mean... all it takes is to hit a dog, right? Then it’s Dean who?"

Sam’s hands shook as he braced himself against the counter. He’d been angry. God, he’d been so angry. But he hadn’t meant for things to end like that. He hadn’t wanted Dean to think he didn’t care.

But he’d let him think it anyway.

The bunker felt suffocating now, its walls closing in with every passing second. Sam grabbed his phone and called Cas.

The angel answered almost immediately. “Sam?”

“It’s Dean,” Sam said, his voice cracking.

“What’s happened?” Cas asked, alarmed.

“He’s in a hospital in South Carolina,” Sam said quickly. “He fell. They think…” He swallowed hard. “They think he was trying to…”

“Where is he?” Cas interrupted, his tone sharp.

“Greenville Memorial. I’m heading there now, but Cas… he’s bad. They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Cas said, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Cas, your grace…”

“I’ll meet you there,” Cas repeated firmly.

Sam nodded, even though the angel couldn’t see him. “Okay. Thanks.”

As the call ended, Sam stood frozen in place. His mind raced with a thousand questions, a thousand fears, but one thought stood out above the rest.

Dean needs me.

And this time, Sam wasn’t going to let him down.

Chapter Text

Sam stepped off the plane in Charlotte with a heavy heart, the guilt that had clung to him since the phone call now suffocating. His mind replayed the conversation with the doctor on a loop during the hour-and-a-half drive to Greenville. A waterfall. Alone. Injured. Likely overnight. The unspoken words—suicide attempt—churned in his gut.

By the time he reached Prisma Health Greenville Memorial, the sun was dipping below the horizon. The hospital was a maze of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. Sam felt small and powerless as he navigated his way to the ICU, where Castiel was waiting for him.

“I’ve been inside,” Cas said. “Dean’s condition is serious, but he’s… alive.”

Sam gripped Cas’s arm. “Can you heal him?” he asked desperately, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Cas’s expression tightened, his jaw working silently before he replied. “I… tried.”

Sam’s stomach dropped. “And?”

Cas hesitated, guilt flickering in his eyes. “The grace… It’s burning out faster than I anticipated. I’ve been pushing it too far, and it’s become unstable. Healing Dean in his current state requires more than I can give.”

“You’re saying you can’t?” Sam’s voice broke on the word.

“I’m saying that if I attempt it, there’s a high probability I’ll fail… and that could make things worse,” Cas said gravely. “If I try to heal his injuries and the grace misfires, I could kill him.”

Sam stared at Cas, his chest heaving with frustration and fear. “So, what? We’re supposed to just sit here and hope he pulls through on his own?”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cas said quietly. “I don’t want this any more than you do. But this is beyond me right now.”

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the weight of Cas’s words settle like lead in his chest. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Sam nodded. “I need to see him,” he said hoarsely.

Cas stepped aside, and Sam walked into the ICU, where a nurse directed him to Dean’s room. He paused at the door, bracing himself. But nothing could prepare him for the sight that awaited him.

Dean lay in the bed, pale and lifeless, a tube snaking down his throat, connecting him to a ventilator that kept his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt eerily unnatural. His head was heavily bandaged, the thick layers of gauze wrapped tightly around his skull. His face was badly bruised, dark purples and blues blooming across his face made his features look distorted, almost unrecognizable, a gash stitched above his temple and Sam could see the faint outline of a brace beneath the blanket over his lower leg.

But it was the gauntness that struck Sam the hardest. Dean, who had always been so solid and full of life, looked hollow. His cheeks were sunken, his skin sallow. Sam stepped closer, his knees nearly buckling under the weight of it all. He clenched the bed rail, his knuckles white as he forced himself to stay steady. The once-strong presence of his brother felt reduced to something heartbreakingly fragile, dwarfed by the towering machines and surrounded by a tangle of tubes and wires keeping him alive.

He sank into the chair beside the bed, his hands trembling as he struggled to process the sight before him. Dean had always been the strong one, the protector. But now, he looked like he was barely clinging on, caught in a fragile balance between life and death.

“Dean…” Sam whispered, his voice breaking as he choked on the lump in his throat. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he took in the sight of his brother—pale, small, and surrounded by so many machines it was hard to tell where they ended and Dean began. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the cool, lifeless skin of Dean’s hand, a tear slipped down his face. The hum of the ventilator and the steady beep of the heart monitor filled the air, their relentless precision a cruel reminder of how much Dean now depended on the machines surrounding him.

Sam fought to keep it together, but all he could think about was how unfair it was—how much Dean had fought, sacrificed, and bled, only to end up here, tethered to machines, his life no longer his own. He deserved so much better. All Sam could do was sit there, gripping the hand that didn’t grip back, and pray that somehow, Dean was still with him.

The door creaked open, and a middle-aged woman in scrubs entered. She gave Sam a kind smile. “You must be Sam Winchester,” she said softly.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I… how is my brother?”

She introduced herself as Dr. Parker, the attending physician overseeing Dean’s care. Her tone was calm but tinged with gravity. “Your brother is in a very critical condition. He suffered a traumatic brain injury, including a brain bleed that required a craniotomy. He also has a thoracic spinal fracture at T8-T9 that was fused, a broken ankle, and an infected wound on his ribcage that we had to clean out surgically. Combined with malnutrition and being severely underweight, his body is struggling to cope with the strain of his injuries and the surgeries.”

Sam’s stomach churned. “You said he was stable?”

“Stable for now,” Dr. Parker confirmed, though her expression was cautious. “But it’s a fragile stability. The ventilator is breathing for him, and we’ve had to resuscitate him more than once. The infection is a concern, especially with the stress of the surgeries. We’re doing everything we can to manage it, but his immune system is weakened.”

Sam clenched the side of the bed rail tighter. “And if… when he wakes up?”

Dr. Parker hesitated. “If he wakes up, there’s a possibility of brain damage. It’s too early to tell the extent, but the location of the injury could affect memory, language, cognition, or motor function. As for the spinal fracture, we won’t know if there’s permanent damage until we assess his recovery. For now, the swelling is significant, which means he’ll likely have limited mobility, at least temporarily.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “What are his chances?”

Dr. Parker sighed. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Winchester. It’s a difficult road ahead. But your brother seems like a fighter, and sometimes that makes all the difference.”

Sam nodded numbly, the words barely registering as the weight of everything she’d said bore down on him. He thanked her quietly as she left, then turned back to Dean.

“A fighter,” he muttered bitterly. “Yeah, that’s you, alright. Too stubborn to quit, right?... Or you were…” His voice broke, and he dropped his head into his hands, taking shuddering breaths to keep himself together.

He looked up at Dean, his eyes scanning the machines keeping his brother alive. The thought of Dean lying there overnight at the bottom of a waterfall, broken and bleeding, was a knife twisting in his gut.

“This isn’t fair, Dean,” Sam said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re supposed to be indestructible, remember? You’re supposed to get back up. Always.”

But this wasn’t the same Dean who’d bounced back from countless brushes with death. This was different. This was worse than when Dean had been in hospital before.

His mind spiralled back to their last conversation. The hurt in Dean’s voice, the way it had cracked when he’d accused Sam of not caring, of not trying to save him. And now Sam was here, staring down at his brother, who had nearly died alone, and all Sam could think was that this was his fault.

Sam reached for Dean’s hand, hesitating for a moment before curling his fingers around his brother’s slack grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything. For the fight. For what I said. I didn’t mean it, Dean. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he said, his voice shaking. “I should’ve… I don’t know. Done something. Anything.”

The machines beeped softly in response, and Sam let out a broken laugh. “Not a good time for an apology, huh?” he murmured.

He stayed there for hours, the steady rhythm of the ventilator and heart monitor a constant reminder of just how fragile his brother’s life had become.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam wasn’t sure where to start. After spending the night at a cheap motel near the hospital, sleep eluding him, he and Castiel made their way to retrieve the Impala before visiting hours.

The lot where Dean’s car had been impounded was tucked away on the outskirts of Greenville. Sam stood with Cas as the attendant brought the car around. Seeing the Impala in such a state made Sam’s chest tighten. Dirt streaked its glossy black paint, and the front bumper had a fresh dent. One of the headlights was cracked.

“She’s seen better days,” Sam muttered as he walked around the car, his fingers brushing over the damage.

“It’s a reflection of what Dean’s been through,” Castiel said gravely.

Sam swallowed hard and climbed into the driver’s seat. The familiar smell of leather and the faint trace of Dean’s deodorant hit him like a gut punch. His brother’s jacket was still in the backseat, crumpled where he’d thrown it who-knows-how-long ago. Sam reached for it, clutching it tightly for a moment before tossing it back.

He popped the trunk out of habit, needing to know everything was still there. The weapons were accounted for, but Dean’s duffle was conspicuously absent. Sam stared at the empty space for a long moment, his brow furrowing. “Where’s his bag?”

Castiel peered over his shoulder. “Perhaps it’s at the place where he was staying?”

“Yeah, but where was that?” Sam muttered, slamming the trunk closed. “Dean doesn’t just leave his bag behind. Was he at a motel? Did he lose it somewhere? Why would he leave it? That thing’s practically glued to his side.” He sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through his hair. “Great. Another mystery we don’t have answers to.”

Cas tilted his head. “If it’s not in the car, it may hold clues to what he was doing. We should look into it.”

“Add it to the list,” Sam muttered, his voice tight.

He glanced at Cas in the passenger seat. “Did you ask anyone at the hospital where they found him?”

Cas nodded. “They mentioned it was at a small waterfall in the area, but they wouldn’t disclose the exact location. I think they believed I was prying.”

“Great,” Sam muttered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “Dean was found at the bottom of a waterfall, and we don’t even know which one?”

Cas tilted his head, his voice calm but firm. “We could ask emergency services or the police later. They might have the details on where he was found.”

Sam sighed, his frustration simmering just below the surface. “Yeah, I guess. I just… I want to understand. Was it an accident? Did he jump? Was he pushed? Hell, maybe he was hunting something.”

“Does it matter how he got there?” Cas asked quietly.

Sam blinked, his throat tightening. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

The rest of the drive back to the hospital was quiet. Sam parked the Impala in the lot closest to the ICU entrance, his hands lingering on the keys before he pocketed them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they stepped back into Dean’s room later that morning, Sam froze. Something was different. He felt a fresh wave of alarm, the bruising on Dean’s face had worsened dramatically, dark purples and blues bloomed under both eyes, stark against his pale skin. His heart sank further as his eyes landed on the feeding tube now working its way into Dean’s nose.

A nurse entered moments later, holding a clipboard. She gave Sam a polite smile. “Good morning. You’re Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his voice tight. He gestured toward Dean. “His face... it looks worse. Is that normal?”

The nurse nodded, her tone calm and reassuring. “Yes, it’s common after a craniotomy. The bruising and swelling around his eyes are from both the initial impact and the surgery. Swelling tends to peak around… now after the procedure and should gradually improve.”

Sam’s worry didn’t entirely abate, but he nodded. “And the feeding tube? He didn’t have that yesterday.”

“We had to place it this morning,” the nurse explained gently. “Your brother’s body is under a lot of strain, and he’s underweight. We can’t risk him losing any more weight while he’s recovering.”

Sam’s stomach churned. “Isn’t there another way?”

“Not right now,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “We don’t know how long he’ll remain in the coma, and even when he wakes, we’re unsure how the thoracic swelling will affect his breathing. He may still need assistance. For now, the feeding tube is temporary but necessary. His body needs the nutrients to heal.”

Sam exhaled shakily, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Right. Of course. Thanks.”

The nurse gave him a small nod before checking Dean’s vitals, making a few notes on her clipboard, and leaving them alone again. Sam turned back to Dean, his stomach tight with worry. He tried to focus on what the nurse had said, that the swelling and bruising would get better.

Sam sank into the chair by the bed, staring at his brother. The addition of the feeding tube made the situation feel even more dire, as if that were even possible.

Cas stood quietly nearby, his gaze fixed on Dean. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Sam,” he said softly.

“Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say,” Sam shot back. “You didn’t say what I said to him. You didn’t tell him he wasn’t worth saving.”

“You didn’t mean it,” Cas said.

“Doesn’t matter if I meant it or not,” Sam replied bitterly. “He believed it. And now he’s here, like this, and I don’t even know if he’s going to wake up.”

Cas took a step closer, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Dean’s stronger than you think.”

Sam let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know, Cas. Even he’s got limits. And this? This might be it.”

Chapter Text

The soft beep of the monitors and the hiss of the ventilator filled the room, a steady rhythm that should have been comforting but wasn’t. Sam sat slouched in the chair by Dean’s bed, his fingers loosely curled around a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. His eyes lingered on Dean, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, a cruel imitation of normalcy.

Sam had spent hours memorizing every detail of his brother’s face, the bruises mottling his skin, the angry red line of stitches running just beneath his hairline, the feeding tube working its way across his cheek and into his right nostril, the way the ventilator tube looked too big and too invasive. Dean had always been larger than life, indestructible even when he wasn’t. Seeing him like this, reduced to wires and machines, was overwhelming.

The nurse’s arrival pulled him from his thoughts. She moved quietly, giving him a small, professional nod as she set her supplies on the tray beside the bed. “We’re just going to freshen him up, Mr. Winchester,” she said, her voice soft and calm. “Feel free to step out if you’d like.”

Sam shook his head. “I’ll stay,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

The nurse didn’t argue. She moved efficiently, pulling on gloves and folding back the blanket covering Dean. Sam’s stomach tightened as the full extent of his brother’s injuries came into view, the cast on his left ankle, the fading bruises on his abdomen and ribs, and the thin, sterile dressings wrapped around his torso.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” the nurse assured him, as if she could sense his unease.

Sam nodded, his throat tight. He watched as she started by unfastening the straps on the catheter bag, her movements careful and practised. Every step of the process was clinical, routine for her, but for Sam, it was anything but. Dean should’ve been cracking jokes, grumbling about how stupid all of this was, not lying there completely oblivious while someone else took care of the most basic functions for him.

The nurse worked in silence, replacing the bag and cleaning the surrounding area. Sam swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of his chair. Sam forced himself to look away, his chest heaving with the weight of the moment. He’d seen Dean at his worst, beaten, bloodied, dying, but this was different. This was intimate in a way that felt wrong, invasive. Dean would’ve hated this. This wasn’t Dean. This couldn’t be Dean.

When she turned Dean onto his side to clean him, Sam instinctively rose to help, but the nurse waved him off with a gentle shake of her head. “I’ve got him,” she said softly.

Sam sank back into the chair, his fists clenched in his lap. He hated how small Dean looked, how lifeless. His brother was all sharp edges and defiance, not this fragile shell.

When the nurse finished, she rolled Dean back onto his back and began unwrapping the bandages around his chest. The bruising was worse than Sam remembered, angry purples and yellows painting the spaces between his ribs.

“These are healing well,” the nurse said, her tone light but professional. “The doctor will probably want the stitches out in a day or two.”

Sam nodded, barely hearing her. His eyes were fixed on the thin, puckered lines of stitches running along Dean’s side. He didn’t even want to see the stitches he knew were on Dean’s spine.

When the nurse moved to the bandage on Dean’s head, Sam couldn’t stop himself from standing. He hovered at the edge of the bed, watching as she gently peeled back the gauze to reveal the jagged line of stitches across Dean’s scalp.

“He’s healing well,” the nurse said again, glancing at Sam. “It’s going to take time, but he’s doing better than most in his condition.”

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight, his chest too heavy. He knew she meant to reassure him, but all he could think about was how wrong this all was. Dean shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be so still, so helpless.

When the nurse finished, she tucked the blanket back over Dean and began cleaning up her supplies. “He’s in good hands,” she said softly before slipping out of the room.

Sam sank back into the chair, his head in his hands. The air felt heavy, oppressive. He knew he should be grateful, Dean was alive, and that was more than they’d thought possible just a few days ago, but the sight of his brother like this, so far from the man he knew, made it hard to focus on anything else.

The machines beeped softly, the ventilator hissed, and Dean lay motionless. Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at his brother. “You’ve got to come back, man,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This isn’t you. You’ve got to come back.”

Dean didn’t move.

And for the first time in a long time, Sam didn’t know if he would.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Six days had passed since Sam arrived in Greenville, and it felt like six lifetimes. The ICU had become his world, a haze of antiseptic smells, muted conversations, and the relentless hum of machines. He hadn’t left the hospital except to sleep, grabbing restless hours on a lumpy bed in a nearby motel before returning to Dean’s side. Castiel stayed in the waiting room most of the time, quiet and unmoving, his gaze fixed on nothing, only stepping out to pray or search for some divine clarity.

Dr. Parker met Sam outside Dean’s room early that morning, her expression composed but not without a hint of optimism. “We’ve seen encouraging signs,” she said, her tone measured. “He is responding well to treatment, and the swelling in the brain has decreased significantly. His brain activity has improved since he first arrived. The spinal swelling is still present, but it’s under control for now.”

She gestured to a diagram of the thoracic spine she’d brought along. “The spinal fusion we performed was successful, but it’s critical that Dean remains immobile in these early stages. The back brace ensures there’s no pressure or movement that could jeopardize the healing process or risk additional stress on the spinal cord.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, absorbing the information as she continued, “When Dean wakes, managing his pain will be a top priority. The fusion is stable, but he’s likely to experience significant discomfort, particularly as we gradually assess his mobility and start physical therapy. And, of course, we still can’t predict the full extent of any cognitive or physical impairments until he’s more responsive.”

Sam nodded, the words swirling in his head, both comforting and suffocating at once. Improved brain activity. Critical immobility. Successful surgery. Cognitive impairments.

Sam’s throat tightened. “And if… when he wakes, will he… will he be able to feel his legs?”

Dr. Parker’s gaze softened. “The swelling around the spinal cord is still obstructing signals. As it subsides, we’ll have a clearer picture of his long-term mobility. It’s going to take time and patience, Mr. Winchester.”

Sam exhaled shakily, turning his eyes toward Dean through the glass. The back brace was secured over the hospital gown, its rigid structure a stark reminder of how fragile Dean’s body had become. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm both reassuring and unnerving. Sam didn’t care how long it took. Dean was going to pull through. He had to.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. “How soon will he wake?”

“Patients wake at their own pace,” Dr. Parker said gently. “It could be hours, days or even weeks. The important thing is that he’s improving.”

Sam thanked her, his voice hoarse, and stepped inside Dean’s room.

The sight of his brother, pale, bandaged, bruised, and hooked to too many machines, still hit Sam like a freight train. His chest rose and fell in line with a soft hiss, a reminder of Dean’s life still relied on the ventilator. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Castiel stood beside the bed, his posture stiff but his expression unreadable. “He looks better than he did,” Cas said softly, as if to reassure himself as much as Sam.

Sam nodded his gaze fixed on Dean’s face. There was a difference, his colour had improved, and the lines of pain on his face seemed softer. It wasn’t much, but Sam clung to it like a lifeline.

They settled into the routine they’d built over the past week. Sam pulled up a chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, while Castiel stood watch, his presence solid and grounding.

Hours passed with little change. Nurses came and went, checking Dean’s vitals, adjusting his IV lines, and encouraging Sam to take breaks he never took.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Sam noticed a flicker of movement. He froze, leaning forward in his chair.

“Cas, did you see that?”

Castiel turned sharply toward Dean. “What did you see?”

“His eyes. I think…” Sam trailed off, staring intently.

Another flicker, Dean’s eyelids twitched, the faintest shift.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cracked. He stood and moved closer to the bed, gripping the rail tightly. “Hey, you with me?”

Castiel moved to the other side, his head tilted as he watched intently. “Dean, it’s us. Can you hear me?”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered again.

“C’mon, man,” Sam urged, his voice low and urgent. “You’ve been through hell before. This isn’t any different. You’re gonna get through this too. I’m right here, Dean. Cas is here too.”

His brow furrowed, his eyes cracked open, a sliver of green peeking out beneath heavy lid. Sam swore he saw his lips part slightly, though no sound came out.

Sam exhaled sharply, relief and fear warring in his chest. “That’s it, that’s it Dean,” he murmured.

Dean’s gaze was unfocused, blinking weakly before closing again.

“It’s progress,” Castiel said firmly. “He woke up.”

The door opened, and one of the nurses entered, her smile faint but encouraging when she saw the brothers. “I saw his vitals shift on the monitor,” she said. “That’s a good sign. He’s starting to come out of it.”

Sam nodded, his throat tight with emotion. “He’s a fighter.”

“That he is,” she agreed. “Keep talking to him, it helps more than you know.”

Once she left, Sam leaned closer, his voice softer now. “You scared me, man. Scared the hell out of me. But you’re waking up now, and that’s all that matters. You don’t have to say anything, just… just keep fighting, okay?”

Dean didn’t respond.

Sam reached out, placing his hand gently over Dean’s. “I’ve got you, Dean. You’re not alone. Not this time.”

For a moment, the weight of the past months lifted. Dean was still in the fight, still holding on, and for now, that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the days dragged on after Dean opened his eyes, Sam found himself standing at the window of the ICU waiting room. The view outside wasn’t much, just the hospital parking lot and a stretch of grey sky, but sometimes it felt easier to breathe here than inside Dean’s room, where every beep of the monitors threatened to break him.

Castiel was nearby, sitting silently in a chair, his gaze distant.

Sam pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his mind racing with everything he’d tried not to think about.

Dean had done this to himself. The thought was like a knife twisting in his chest.

Dean, who was always the one fighting to keep Sam alive, the one dragging him out of the darkness, had chosen to let go. Dean, who had given up everything for Sam time and time again, had decided he wasn’t worth saving.

Sam clenched his fists, his jaw tight with anger and sorrow. How could he? How could Dean… Dean, of all people, believe he deserved to die?

The answer was cruelly simple.

Because Dean thought he was poison.

Sam’s breath hitched as the words Dean had thrown at him weeks ago came rushing back. “Can’t you see? I’m poison. Sam, people get close to me, they get killed. Or worse.”

Dean believed that. He truly believed it, so much so that he’d stood at the edge of a waterfall, a cliff, and let himself fall.

Sam bit back a sob, his chest heaving as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He’d been so angry when Dean called him, furious that his brother couldn’t let him go, couldn’t respect his choices. But now… now Sam could see the other side of the coin.

Dean hadn’t fought to save Sam just because he couldn’t let him go. He’d done it because he loved him, because he couldn’t imagine a world where Sam wasn’t alive.

And here Sam was, standing in that very world, one where Dean wasn’t really alive, one where he nearly lost him.

The realization hit him hard. He didn’t care why Dean had done it. He didn’t care about the choices that had led them here, or the selfishness they’d both accused each other of. All that mattered was one simple truth.

Sam couldn’t lose his brother.

Not like this.

Tears burned his eyes as he thought of the years they’d spent together, the good, the bad, the endless sacrifices. Dean had helped him through hell, literally and figuratively, never once giving up on him. Sam knew how much he owed Dean. He knew the weight Dean carried, the unbearable burden of always being the one to save him. And when the roles were reversed, Sam hadn’t been ready to do the same.

The thought twisted in his chest. He thought of the phone call, the way Dean’s voice had cracked as he said, “Yeah, I guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t try to save me.”

Sam choked on a sob, guilt slamming into him with the force of a tidal wave. How had he let Dean believe that? How had he let his brother hang up the phone thinking he didn’t care?

But now, the tables had turned, hadn’t they? Sam was ready to move heaven and earth to keep Dean alive, to drag him out of the darkness the same way Dean had done for him a thousand times over. And that stung. The hypocrisy of it.

When Sam had been ready to die, Dean hadn’t let him go. He’d fought to keep him alive. And now that Dean had given up, Sam realized just how much he understood.

How could Dean have stood back and let him die when Sam couldn’t even imagine doing the same now?

His fists slammed against the window frame, and he turned away, pacing the small room as if he could outrun his own thoughts. Sam didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or beg the universe for forgiveness. All he knew was that he wasn’t ready to let Dean go.

Not now. Not ever.

“Sam.”

He stopped abruptly, looking over at Castiel. The angel’s voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that Sam rarely heard.

“You’re angry,” Cas said simply. “At Dean. At yourself. At everything that’s brought us here. But anger won’t help him now.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t do this, Cas,” he whispered. “I can’t lose him.”

“Then don’t.”

Sam looked up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Castiel’s.

“I know you feel like you’ve failed him,” Cas continued, his tone measured. “But Dean is still here. He’s still fighting, even if he doesn’t realise it. And he needs you to fight for him, just as he’s always fought for you.”

The words settled in Sam’s chest like a lifeline. He wiped his face roughly and stood, determination hardening his features.

Dean might think he wasn’t worth saving. He might believe that the world was better off without him.

But Sam knew better.

Dean wasn’t just his brother. He was everything, his anchor, his protector, his constant. And Sam would do whatever it took to pull him back from the edge, no matter how far gone he was.

With a deep breath, Sam headed back to Dean’s room. Castiel followed silently, a steady presence at his side.

Sam sat down beside the bed, his hand trembling as he reached for Dean’s.

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not this time.”

He tightened his grip, his voice growing firmer. “I don’t care what you think, Dean. I don’t care how broken you feel or how much you think you’ve messed up. You’re my brother, and I’m not letting you go. Not like this. Not ever.”

Dean’s face was slack, his eyes closed, but Sam swore he saw the faintest flicker of response, a twitch of his fingers, a subtle shift in his expression.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Sam leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “You saved me more times than I can count. Now it’s my turn. You hear me? I’m not giving up on you. Not now. Not ever.”

The room was silent except for the hum of the machines, but Sam stayed there, his grip on Dean’s hand unwavering.

He didn’t know what the next days, weeks or months would bring. But one thing was certain, he would fight for Dean with everything he had. Just as Dean had always fought for him.

Chapter Text

Sam didn’t know how long he’d been sitting by Dean’s bedside. Everything blurred together into a monotonous haze of fluorescent lighting and muffled footsteps in the hallway. Time felt meaningless here, measured only by the rhythmic beeping of machines and the occasional shuffle of medical staff. The chair beneath him felt like an extension of his body now, stiff and unforgiving, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t leaving.

Dean wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be out there, standing tall and cocky, smirking like he had the weight of the world in his hands and didn’t mind carrying it, not like this.

Today, something had shifted. The doctors called it progress, but to Sam, it was heartbreaking. Early this morning, Dean’s eyelids had fluttered open. For a moment, Sam’s heart had surged with hope, only to crash when he realized Dean wasn’t really there. His brother’s eyes didn’t focus on him or the room; they stared blankly ahead, as though Dean was looking through a fog Sam couldn’t reach him in. After about ten minutes, his eyes closed again, and Sam was left clutching at the fragments of what felt like a cruel tease.

Dr. Parker had explained the stages of recovery in a calm, steady voice, one Sam appreciated even though the words stung. She’d talked about the vegetative state, where Dean might open his eyes and even have periods of wakefulness, but without true awareness. No recognition, no purposeful movements. From there, the hope was for Dean to progress into a state of minimal consciousness, where he might begin to show signs of awareness, perhaps responding to voices, reacting to touch, or following an object with his eyes.

“It’s important to remember,” Dr. Parker had said, “that every step forward matters. Dean might go from a vegetative state to minimal consciousness, and from there, to full consciousness. But sometimes patients bypass minimal consciousness altogether and regain full awareness. It’s a process, and it can’t be rushed.”

Sam had frowned at the explanation. “So, this morning, when his eyes opened but he didn’t look at me… that’s just the vegetative state?”

The doctor had nodded. “It could be, but it’s still progress. When Dean was first brought in, we weren’t sure if he’d make it to this point, let alone even survive the night. The fact that he’s showing any signs of coming out of the coma is something to be thankful for.”

Progress. Sam had to remind himself of that word. It wasn’t the leap he wanted, but it was a step, a crack in the darkness. Dr. Parker had suggested keeping track of every small win, each new sign of movement, reaction, or wakefulness. “When you look back at those moments,” she’d said, “you’ll see how far he’s come.”

Sam wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to do it. Writing down every flicker of hope felt like tempting fate. What if it didn’t add up to anything? What if Dean didn’t get better? But when the doctor had pointed out how far they’d already come, how close Dean had been to dying when he was first brought in, Sam had needed that perspective.

Dean was alive. Against all odds, he was alive. And now, he was showing signs, however faint, of climbing out of the abyss. That wasn’t nothing.

Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Every small sign of progress mattered. He just had to hold onto that. Even if the steps were slow. Even if the road was longer than he wanted it to be. Because the alternative was unthinkable, Dean had made it this far. He couldn’t stop now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sat in his usual spot, watching as a nurse gently shifted Dean’s position to prevent bedsores. The back brace was prominent under the thin hospital gown, holding Dean’s spine rigid and still. It looked wrong, so unnatural, but Sam knew it was necessary.

Dean’s face tightened as the nurse moved him, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features. Sam leaned forward, his voice soft but urgent.

“Dean? Can you hear me?”

No response. But then, Dean’s fingers twitched, a small, almost imperceptible motion. Sam’s breath caught.

“Hey,” he murmured, his heart pounding. “That’s good, man. That’s real good. Keep it up.”

The nurse gave Sam a reassuring glance before finishing her work and leaving the room. Sam leaned closer, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open for a second, a brief, flickering moment of awareness. Sam held his breath, willing his brother to stay with him.

“Dean,” he said again, his voice cracking. “Please... you have to stay with me. Stay awake, man. Look at me. You’re gonna make it through this, I swear. You’re gonna get better. I know it.”

Dean didn’t move, but Sam wasn’t deterred. He leaned closer, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. “I know it hurts, but you can’t give up.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted him, and he turned to see Dr. Parker enter, followed by a physical therapist carrying a small bag of supplies. Sam straightened in his chair, watching as they approached the bed.

“How’s he doing?” the doctor asked, her tone professional but kind.

“He... moved a little earlier,” Sam said, his voice tinged with cautious hope. “His eyes opened for a second.”

Dr. Parker nodded, checking the monitors and making notes on her clipboard. “That’s good. It’s a sign his brain is starting to reconnect.”

The therapist, a young man with an easy smile, set his bag down and pulled on a pair of gloves. “We’re going to do some passive exercises,” he explained. “Just to keep his muscles active and prevent stiffness. It’s nothing invasive, but it might be uncomfortable for him.”

Sam nodded, shifting his chair closer to the bed. He watched as the therapist began with Dean’s arms, lifting and gently stretching them. The movements were slow and careful, but Dean’s body flinched at the touch. His face twisted, a faint groan slipping past the ventilator.

“Is he in pain?” Sam asked quickly, his voice tight.

“It’s likely,” Dr. Parker said, moving to Dean’s IV. “His body’s hypersensitive right now. I’ll give him an additional dose of pain medication.”

She injected the medication, and gradually, the tension in Dean’s face eased. Sam exhaled, his shoulders slumping in relief.

“You’re doing good, Dean,” he said softly, leaning closer. “You hear me? You’re doing real good.”

The therapist continued, working through each limb with the same careful precision. Dean’s reactions were subtle, small twitches, a tightening of his jaw, but to Sam, they felt monumental. Each one was proof that his brother was still here.

When the session ended, the therapist packed up and left with a reassuring smile. Dr. Parker lingered, checking Dean’s vitals one more time.

After the doctor left, the room fell silent again, save for the hum of machines. Sam sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Dean needed him, and that was all that mattered.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see Castiel entering the doorway. The angel’s trench coat was rumpled, his expression weighed down with exhaustion and worry.

“How is he?” Cas asked, stepping inside.

“Better,” Sam said, though the word felt like a lie. “The doc says he’s making progress, but it’s slow. He’s in pain, Cas. And he’s not really... here.”

Cas moved to the other side of the bed, his gaze fixed on Dean’s bruised face. “He is strong,” he said firmly. “Stronger than he believes. He will recover.”

Sam sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down at his clasped hands. “I hope you’re right.” A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears. Sam hesitated before glancing at Cas. “What about you? Any luck with Metatron?”

Cas’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “No. The trails I’ve followed have gone cold. I will keep looking.”

Sam nodded, but his focus drifted back to Dean. He reached out, brushing his fingers against the bed’s cold metal rail. “Cas…” he started, his voice uncertain. “Did Dean… did he say anything to you before this? Anything at all?”

Cas frowned, tilting his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Sam paused, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “If he… if he planned this. Jumping off that... Did he leave you a note? Did he tell you goodbye?”

Cas blinked, startled by the question. “No,” he said softly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “He said nothing to me.”

Sam’s chest tightened, and he sat back, staring at the ceiling as his emotions roiled. “He didn’t leave me one either,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “Not a word. Not a goodbye. Nothing.”

“Sam…” Cas’s voice was hesitant, but Sam shook his head, cutting him off.

“Why would he do this, Cas? And not even say goodbye?” His voice cracked, anger and hurt warring within him. “Did he think I wouldn’t care? Did he think I wouldn’t notice?”

Cas’s shoulders slumped, his expression filled with sorrow. “I do not believe that, Sam. Dean cares for you deeply. Perhaps…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps he believed he had nothing left to say.”

Sam’s stomach churned at the thought, his fingers tightening into fists. “That’s not good enough,” he said bitterly. “If he thought he was protecting me, or that I’d be better off without him… God, Cas, how could he think that? How could he think I wouldn’t…”

His words faltered as his gaze dropped to Dean’s motionless form. His brother, his rock, lay there, bruised and broken, surrounded by machines that were keeping him alive. Sam swiped angrily at his eyes, biting back the tears that threatened to spill.

Cas spoke quietly, his voice steady and gentle. “Dean’s actions were not a reflection of you, Sam. They were the result of his own pain, his own belief that he was a burden. It is a lie he tells himself, one he has told for far too long.”

Sam shook his head, his jaw clenched. “I should’ve seen it,” he murmured. “I should’ve done more. If I’d just—”

“You cannot shoulder this blame,” Cas interrupted, stepping closer. “Dean made a choice. It was not the right choice, but it was his. What matters now is that he is still here, and we still have time to bring him back.”

Sam didn’t respond immediately, his throat tight as he struggled to hold back his emotions. Finally, he looked up at Cas, his voice raw. “We don’t even know if he’ll want to come back.”

Cas met his gaze, unwavering. “Then we remind him why he should.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The doctors had been cautious about weaning Dean off the ventilator, knowing how fragile his condition had been. But now, eleven days after the “accident”, with his brain swelling receding, his infection cleared, and a few precious pounds of weight gained, they believed he was finally strong enough to begin the process. Dr. Parker explained it to Sam in clear, measured tones: "Dean’s on controlled breathing now, meaning the ventilator is doing all the work for him. We’re going to shift him to assisted breathing, where the ventilator only kicks in to support him. We will let his lungs start taking over gradually."

Sam nodded, trying to focus on the explanation instead of the steady hiss of the ventilator in the background.

“The goal is to prevent complications like pneumonia, which can develop when a patient stays on a ventilator too long,” Dr. Parker continued. “We’ll watch his oxygen levels closely. If he tolerates assisted breathing, we’ll keep reducing the support until he can manage on his own with just an oxygen mask.”

It sounded clinical, procedural, but Sam couldn’t ignore the weight of it. Every small step forward felt like a lifeline.

When they made the first adjustment, dropping the ventilator to assisted mode, Sam watched the numbers on the monitor with bated breath. Dean’s chest rose and fell, not as evenly as before, but enough to keep his oxygen levels steady. A nurse hovered nearby, adjusting settings and jotting down notes, while Sam sat silently by Dean’s side, his hand resting on the edge of the bed. Dean’s face twitched faintly, his brows furrowing as if sensing the effort his body was being asked to make.

“You’re doing good, man,” Sam murmured, his voice low. He wasn’t sure if Dean could hear him, but he said it anyway. "Keep breathing."

Each hour brought another evaluation, another small step. Over the next two days, the ventilator’s role lessened bit by bit, until finally, they were ready to remove it completely. Sam held his breath as the nurse slid the tube out, the sound of its removal making his stomach churn. A moment later, a simple oxygen mask was secured over Dean’s nose and mouth.

“He’s breathing on his own now,” the nurse said, smiling slightly.

Sam let out a long breath, relief washing over him. It wasn’t over yet, there were still hurdles ahead, but Dean’s chest rose and fell under his own power. For the first time in weeks, it felt like he was fighting back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam sat in the familiar chair beside Dean’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together. He hadn’t moved much since he got there that morning, except to shift his position when the stiff hospital seat got too uncomfortable.

Dean lay still in the bed, his face pale, framed by bruises that had started to fade into sickly yellows and greens. The ventilator was gone, replaced by a nasal cannula that fed oxygen into his nose, but he was still completely out of it. Sam had seen his brother’s eyes open once or twice in the past couple of days, but there’d been nothing behind them. No recognition, no spark of Dean. Just a blank, vacant stare that left Sam colder than the machines ever had.

The door opened, and the nurse stepped in, a warm but professional smile on her face as she greeted Sam. “Good morning, Mr. Winchester. How’s our patient today?”

Sam shrugged. “Same,” he muttered.

The nurse nodded sympathetically. She’d been with them almost every day, a steady presence in a world that felt anything but stable. Setting down her supplies on the rolling tray, she snapped on a pair of gloves. “We’re going to clean him up, check his dressings, and get him more comfortable,” she explained.

Sam nodded and leaned back slightly, his stomach knotting at the thought of what was to come.

The nurse pulled back the blanket, exposing Dean’s thin frame. He looked so small, so vulnerable. Sam swallowed hard as she worked methodically, starting with Dean’s chest. She carefully peeled back the bandages covering the incision site, where the infection near his ribs had been cleaned and stitched back together after the accident. The stitches had come out the day before, leaving behind a thin, pink line that looked raw and angry.

“This is healing nicely,” the nurse commented, her tone calm and encouraging as she cleaned the area with practised ease. “No signs of infection. That’s a good sign.”

Sam barely heard her. His eyes were fixed on Dean’s face, on the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed, on the faint flicker of his eyelashes that meant nothing anymore. He wanted to believe it was a sign, that Dean was in there somewhere, fighting to come back. But the longer this went on, the harder it was to hold onto that hope.

What if he never woke up?

What if this was it?

The nurse moved on, gently wiping Dean’s arms and shoulders with a warm, damp cloth. His muscles had already started to atrophy, the strong, capable arms Sam had always relied on now frail and thin. She worked quickly but carefully, her movements precise as she lifted each limb to clean underneath.

Sam’s chest tightened as he watched her handle Dean’s body like it was something fragile, something breakable. His brother wasn’t supposed to be like this. Dean was the strongest person Sam had ever known, always the one taking care of everyone else. Now he couldn’t even move, couldn’t even breathe on his own until yesterday.

The nurse shifted to Dean’s legs, removing catheter bag with the same practised efficiency. Sam looked away, his jaw clenching as he fought against the wave of nausea and shame that rose in his chest. Dean would hate this. He’d be mortified if he knew someone else was doing this for him.

Sam’s thoughts spiralled, his mind latching onto every worst-case scenario. If Dean woke up, and that was still an if, what would he even come back to? The doctors had been vague, throwing around terms like “cognitive impairment” and “mobility challenges” like they were normal, everyday problems. What if Dean never moved again? What if he couldn’t talk, couldn’t eat, couldn’t be Dean?

And what if he didn’t wake up at all?

Sam’s breath hitched, and he clenched his fists tightly in his lap, trying to hold himself together. He couldn’t lose it here, not in front of the nurse, not in front of Dean. But the weight of it all was crushing, pressing down on his chest until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

The nurse finished with Dean’s legs and carefully rolled him onto his side to clean his back. She adjusted the pillows to keep him supported, her hands steady and sure as she worked. “He’s doing better than you think, you know,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder at Sam.

Sam let out a hollow laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “Doesn’t look like it.”

She didn’t react to the edge in his voice, her expression calm and patient. “Healing takes time,” she said gently. “I know it’s hard to see now, but he’s making progress. The fact that he’s off the ventilator is a big step. And his body’s responding well to treatment. Those are all good signs.”

Sam shook his head, his hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. “But what if he doesn’t… What if this is it? What if he never comes back? Or worse, what if he wakes up and he’s… he’s not him anymore?”

The words came out in a rush, and Sam hated how small and broken his voice sounded. Tears burned in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them.

The nurse finished rolling Dean back onto his back and pulled the blanket up to cover him again. She turned to Sam, her expression soft but firm. “You’re carrying a lot right now,” she said quietly. “And I understand. You’re scared, you’re overwhelmed. That’s normal. But you can’t let yourself drown in the what-ifs.”

Sam sniffed, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand.

“Your brother’s got a long journey ahead of him,” she continued, her voice steady but kind. “But he’s not alone. He’s got you. And you can’t be there for him if you burn yourself out now. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Sam shook his head, his voice breaking. “I can’t just leave him.”

“I’m not saying you should,” she said gently. “But stepping outside for a few minutes, getting some fresh air, grabbing a bite to eat, getting a good night sleep, that’s not abandoning him. It’s making sure you’re strong enough to keep going. Because this isn’t a sprint, Mr. Winchester. It’s a marathon.”

Sam stared at her, his throat too tight to respond. He wanted to argue, to tell her she didn’t understand, but deep down, he knew she was right. He couldn’t keep going like this, running on fumes and desperation. Dean needed him to be strong, and he couldn’t do that if he let himself fall apart.

The nurse reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s doing better,” she said again, her tone reassuring. “I know it’s hard to see, but he is. And he’s lucky to have you here, fighting for him.”

Sam nodded, his head dipping forward as another tear slipped down his cheek. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning back to her supplies. Sam watched as she tidied up, her movements calm and efficient. When she left the room a few minutes later, he stayed where he was, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “So you better wake up, okay? Because I need you, man. I can’t… I can’t do this on my own.”

Dean didn’t stir, didn’t give any sign that he’d heard. But Sam stayed anyway, holding onto the hope that somewhere, somehow, his brother was still fighting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam could see it the moment Dean started to stir, the subtle change in the beeping of the monitors, the way his brother’s breathing hitched unevenly. His eyes flicked down to Dean’s face, pale and drawn, and then back to the screen, where the numbers spiked.

“Dean,” Sam said softly, moving closer to the bed. His brother’s eyelids fluttered weakly, but his eyes didn’t open.

The panic hit before the awareness, Sam could tell. Dean’s breathing grew shallow, chest rising and falling in jerky, uneven bursts. The monitors confirmed what Sam already knew: Dean was waking up, and he was terrified.

“Hey, hey,” Sam said, his voice steady, though his stomach twisted into knots. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

Dean’s brow furrowed, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. His face tightened, and Sam could see the tremor in his jaw, the faint twitch of his fingers against the blanket.

“Dean, can you hear me?” Sam asked, leaning forward, his hand hovering over Dean’s arm but not quite touching. He didn’t want to startle him, not when he was already so disoriented.

Dean’s eyes cracked open, glassy and unfocused, but Sam caught the flicker of recognition before it was swallowed by something darker, panic, confusion, hopelessness. Sam’s heart sank.

“It’s okay,” Sam said again, this time more firmly. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Dean’s gaze darted around the room, his breaths coming faster now. He saw Dean’s fingers twitch again, uselessly, and the spike in the monitors as his panic grew.

“You’re gonna feel weak,” Sam said quickly, his words rushing out. “That’s normal, okay? You’ve been out for a while. Your body’s still healing.”

Dean’s eyes finally landed on him, wide and filled with something raw and broken.

“Breathe, Dean,” Sam coached gently, keeping his voice steady even as his chest tightened. “Just take it slow. You’re safe, I promise.”

Sam saw the tear before Dean probably even realized it had fallen, slipping silently down the side of his brother’s face. It was another sign of how much Dean was unravelling, and it hit Sam like a punch to the gut.

“Dean,” he said softly, leaning closer, his voice low and steady. “Come on. Look at me. You’re gonna get better, okay? You’re gonna be alright.”

Dean’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts, his gaze darting around the room before landing on Sam. It was raw, naked panic. Sam reached out without thinking, his hand hovering over Dean’s before finally settling on it, a gentle squeeze meant to anchor him.

But Dean flinched.

It wasn’t the kind of flinch Sam was used to, the startled jolt of someone in pain. No, this was different. It was like Dean was recoiling from more than the touch, from the very idea of it, from Sam’s presence.

The hurt lodged itself in Sam’s chest, sharp and immediate. He pulled his hand back instinctively, curling it into a fist in his lap.

“Dean,” Sam whispered again, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Please, Dean, just look at me. Just talk to me. You’re gonna be okay. Please.”

Another tear rolled down Dean’s face.

“I’m here, Dean,” Sam said softly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Please, just stay with me.”

“Dean,” he tried again, his voice quieter now, tinged with the ache he couldn’t quite hide.

Dean’s eyelids flickered, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. His throat worked silently, confusion etched into every line of his face.

“You’re gonna get better,” Sam said firmly, even as his heart threatened to break in two. “I swear, you will. This is just a step, okay? It’s gonna take time, but we’ll get through it. Together.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Dean noticed was the sound. A relentless roar, like the world itself was tearing apart, pounding in his skull. He cracked his eyes open, but the darkness was absolute. No moonlight, no stars, just black. It pressed against him, as heavy as the rocks beneath his broken body. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know what he was. All he knew was pain.

It was everywhere, a crushing, suffocating tide. His head throbbed like it had been split open, every pulse of his heart sending fresh agony down his neck and through his spine. His ribs burned with every shallow breath, a grinding heat that made him cough, and God, the coughing, each spasm sent shards of fire through his chest. His ankle, screamed at him, a white-hot agony that made his vision spark even in the darkness.

He tried to move, just to shift the tiniest bit off the jagged rocks beneath him, but the moment he did, his body rebelled. His back ignited, pain radiating out like lightning, sharp and electric. A strangled groan escaped his lips, barely audible over the waterfall crashing nearby. Waterfall. That’s what the sound was. He thought, anyway. The word didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

Where was he?

The air was cold, damp, biting at his skin through his soaked clothes. He felt the dampness under his body, thought it might be blood, but he couldn’t check. Couldn’t even lift his arm. Every attempt to move sent new shocks of agony through him, as though the world was punishing him for daring to be alive.

Alive.

He shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t still be here. He remembered the edge, the feeling of falling, of accepting it, of letting it all go. No more guilt. No more pain. No more endless, exhausting fight. But here he was. Still here. And this was worse than hell.

“Why?” His voice was barely a rasp, dry and cracked, swallowed by the roar of the waterfall. He didn’t know who he was talking to. God, the universe, himself. “Why the hell didn’t you just let me die?”

Sam wouldn’t come. He’d known that. Sam had made it clear, Dean had poisoned everything they’d built. There was no saving it, no saving him. And Kevin… Kevin was dead because of him. The guilt hit like a fresh blow, and Dean gasped, choking on air.

The pain made him dizzy, sent the world spinning even though he couldn’t see it. He felt the edges of his consciousness pulling away, slipping, fading, but he didn’t want to fight it. Let it take him. Maybe it would be better this time.

Darkness claimed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean came to with a gasp, sharp and shallow, his body recoiling from the shock of pain that jolted him back into awareness. He still couldn’t see, but the darkness felt heavier now, more suffocating. His body screamed at him from every nerve ending, a cacophony of agony he couldn’t escape.

He tried to breathe slower, to force air into his lungs without the crushing pain of his ribs stabbing him from the inside. It wasn’t working. Nothing was working. He felt weak, useless, broken. He was shaking, or maybe that was just his body’s inability to hold itself together anymore.

The roar of the waterfall pounded in his ears, a constant, overwhelming force. It felt like it was inside him, filling the hollow spaces where his strength used to be. He couldn’t think past it, couldn’t focus. He wanted to cry out for help, but no one would hear him. No one was coming. He was alone.

Always alone.

His breath hitched, and he whimpered involuntarily, the sound so pitiful and foreign it didn’t feel like his own. “Sam…” he croaked, his voice barely audible. It wasn’t a call for help. It wasn’t even a plea. It was just… a word. A name. A person who’d given up on him.

Why had he survived the fall? Why couldn’t this just end?

The darkness began creeping in again, the edges of his pain blurring as his body fought to shut down, to protect itself from the torment. He didn’t fight it. He let it pull him under, let the blackness take him, maybe this time, he wouldn’t wake up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain. It was everywhere, crushing and suffocating, bleeding into every corner of his existence. His body felt like it had been shattered and pieced back together wrong. His head pounded relentlessly, a deep, throbbing ache that blurred his thoughts. Breathing was a battle, shallow and jagged, every inhale scraping against the raw fire in his chest. God, his back was a whole other kind of agony, a radiating, pulsating pain that made him want to scream if he had the strength.

But he didn’t.

It was dark. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t make out shapes or light or even the outline of his own hands, not that he could move them. He tried to shift, to lift his head, but his body rebelled. The smallest twitch sent a jolt of lightning-hot pain through him, and he bit down on a groan, his teeth gritting against the torment. He was trapped, pinned by the sheer weight of his own brokenness.

The sound was the next thing he noticed, a deep, distant roar that filled the air around him, constant and overwhelming. He couldn’t place it. Couldn’t understand what it was. It felt foreign, intrusive, like it didn’t belong. Like he didn’t belong.

Where was he?

The thought cut through the haze in his head, jagged and unwelcome. He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. There was nothing but darkness and pain and that endless, crushing noise. His mind scrambled for answers, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. There was nothing there. No memory, no context. Just pain.

And the loneliness.

It settled over him like a weight, heavier than the darkness, heavier than the pain. He was alone. Completely and utterly alone. The realisation squeezed at his chest, threatening to choke him, and his breath hitched. Why was he here? Why couldn’t he remember? What had he done to deserve this?

The pain in his chest flared, and his breath came faster, each shallow inhale a fresh wave of torment. He tried to fight it, to push the panic back, but it was too much. His body wasn’t just broken, it was betraying him, leaving him to drown in the agony.

Another groan escaped him, weak and broken, swallowed by the roar around him. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, didn’t know how much longer he could take it. His mind reeled, spinning in chaotic circles, clawing for answers that wouldn’t come.

Was this hell?

It felt like it. Worse, even. Hell had a purpose, a reason for the suffering. This… this was just pain. Endless, suffocating pain.

His head throbbed, and the darkness began to tilt, swirling at the edges of his awareness. His body felt like it was slipping, falling into the void. A part of him welcomed it, craved the release. Anything to stop the pain, to stop the noise in his head, the crushing silence around him.

The last thing he felt was the cold. It seeped into his bones, numbing the fire in his ribs, the ache in his leg, the sharp sting in his head. He let it take him, let it drag him down into the nothingness. And for a moment, there was peace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he came to, the pain was still there, waiting for him like a familiar enemy. His breath hitched, his chest stuttering as he tried to take in air. The roar was louder now, pressing in on him, pounding in his ears, and he couldn’t think past it. Couldn’t feel past it.

He blinked into the darkness, though it brought no clarity. He was still blind, still lost. He tried to move again, desperate for any kind of relief, but his body wouldn’t obey. The attempt sent a fresh surge of agony through him, and he gasped, the sound ripping out of him unbidden.

“Please…” he croaked, the word raw and broken. He didn’t even know who he was pleading to, God, himself, whatever force had done this to him. He didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop.

But there was no answer. No relief. Just the dark, the noise, and the pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference. Tears leaked from the corners, hot against his cold, clammy skin. He didn’t know why he was crying, he didn’t even know what he’d lost. But something was missing. He could feel it, like a hole ripped through his chest, bleeding out into the void.

The darkness pulled at him again, heavier this time, more insistent. He didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. There was nothing left in him to fight with.

“Sam…” he whispered, the name barely audible. It was the only thing he could grasp in the chaos, the only thing that felt real. But there was no answer. Only silence.

And then, the void took him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean floated in and out of consciousness like a man lost at sea, caught between waves of darkness and fleeting moments of excruciating clarity. Every time he surfaced, the pain slammed into him, sharp and unrelenting, like fire spreading through his ribs and up his spine. His head throbbed with a relentless rhythm, his body felt too heavy, too broken, and each breath sent shards of agony stabbing through his chest.

Breathing wasn’t his choice; the ventilator forced air into his lungs in a rhythmic, mechanical pattern that felt invasive and wrong. His chest rose and fell without his permission, and the sensation was as disorienting as the pain. He tried to push it away, but his body wouldn’t respond. Nothing would respond. It hurt to exist, and the effort of even opening his eyes was too much.

Flashes of light. Shapes, blurred and indistinct, danced in his vision. He thought he saw someone, a shadow leaning over him, speaking words that dissolved into static. The voice was familiar, comforting in a way, but it was swallowed by the pain. Dean tried to focus, to grasp at the faint light, but it slipped through his fingers like water.

He closed his eyes, or maybe they were already closed, and the darkness took him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time he woke, he was sure he was dead.

The light was too bright, too stark against the void he’d come to expect. There was the steady beeping of something nearby, rhythmic and unyielding. A monitor, maybe? He wasn’t sure. It felt distant, unreal, like everything else.

A shape appeared, hovering just out of reach. Dean blinked, his vision swimming, and the shape resolved into a face. Brown hair, hazel eyes. Sammy? He tried to speak, but his throat burned, raw and dry. No sound came out.

Sam’s face blurred again, like a mirage, and Dean wondered if it was real. Was Sam even here? Or was this some cruel trick, another punishment for everything he’d done? He didn’t deserve to see Sam. He hurt Sam, hadn’t he? His fault. All his fault.

The guilt was worse than the pain, a weight pressing down on him, suffocating.

Sam’s mouth moved, but the words didn’t make sense. They were noise, a garbled mix of concern and urgency that Dean’s brain couldn’t piece together. He wanted to tell Sam to stop, to leave him alone, but the effort of forming even a single thought was too much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He drifted again. Time became meaningless, slipping through his fingers like sand. He wasn’t sure if it had been minutes or hours when the next flicker of awareness hit.

Another voice. Deeper this time. Dean thought he saw a trench coat out of the corner of his eye, a blur of beige against the sterile white of the room. Cas? His heart twisted painfully at the thought. Why was Cas here?

“Dean,” the voice said, low and gravelly, like the echo of a memory.

Dean tried to respond, but all that came out was a faint groan. His body wouldn’t obey him, too broken, too heavy. He let his eyes drift shut again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pain was unrelenting, even in the darkness. It gnawed at him, pulsing with every beat of his heart. Sometimes he thought he could hear Sam again, other times Cas, their voices distant and fragmented, like they were speaking through water. Or maybe it was his own mind tormenting him.

He wasn’t sure anymore if he was alive or dead.

If this was heaven, it was a cruel one. No peace, no rest. Just pain and flickers of faces he couldn’t reach.

If it was hell… well, that made more sense. The pain was constant, the confusion endless. This was where he belonged, wasn’t it? After everything he’d done.

His throat ached, raw and constricted, and he became dimly aware of the tube lodged there, of how unnatural it felt. A flash of panic stirred in the back of his mind, he wanted to fight it, to rip the tube out, to move, anything to take control of his body again. But his limbs didn’t feel like his own. When he tried to move, nothing happened. His body wasn’t disconnected, it simply wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel his hands or his legs, only the pain that surged up his spine and throbbed in his skull, drowning out everything else. He wasn’t even sure where the pain ended and he began.

“Dean,” a voice said again, louder this time.

He thought he felt a hand on his arm, warm and grounding, but fleeting, like a ghost. He didn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t. It took too much.

It was easier to let go, to sink back into the darkness where the pain dulled, where he could pretend it didn’t exist. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was his punishment. Or maybe it was just a dream.

Either way, he welcomed the quiet as the void swallowed him again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he surfaced again, the ventilator was gone, but it wasn’t a relief. His face felt tight and confined, the rubber strap of an oxygen mask cutting into his cheeks. It was suffocating, clinging to him like a weight he couldn’t shake. His breathing came shallow and strained, the mask hissing softly with every exhale. He wanted to claw at it, to tear it away, but the thought of moving sent a fresh wave of agony cascading through him.

The pain was relentless, twisting through his ribs and radiating up to his skull. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright, stabbing through the darkness like knives. The shapes above him were too blurry to make out, but there was something familiar in the way one of them leaned close. He blinked, his vision swimming, and for a moment, he thought he saw Sam.

Sammy?

But then the figure shifted, the voice that followed distorted and incomprehensible. Dean frowned, or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell if his face moved. Nothing about his body felt right. The heaviness was unbearable, the weight of his own skin pressing down on him like concrete.

Another wave of darkness must have dragged him under, and when he surfaced again, the world seemed quieter, more distant.

He caught snatches of words, low murmurs that tugged at the edge of his awareness. Something about progress and stable, but the meanings slipped through his fingers before he could grasp them. The only thing he knew for certain was the pain. It burned through him like fire, consuming everything. His head, his back, it bled together into one cacophony of suffering.

And the guilt.

Dean didn’t understand where he was, but some part of him was sure he deserved this. Deserved every ounce of pain coursing through his body. Sam’s voice haunted him, the way it broke when he’d said, We’re not brothers, Dean.

He wasn’t even sure if Sam had said it. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it didn’t matter.

The world was nothing but haze and fragments. Dean floated somewhere between awareness and oblivion, his thoughts slow, tangled, and indistinct. Pain was the only constant, though it wasn’t everywhere, just a crushing weight in his chest, an ache in his skull, and something sharp radiating from his back. Below that, there was nothing.

That was wrong, wasn’t it? There should have been something. A twinge in his legs, the dull throb of overused muscles, anything. But no, the rest of him might as well not exist.

He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

The faint sound of a voice drifted through the fog. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was familiar, deep, and heavy with emotion. It scraped against his raw nerves, setting off a flicker of recognition. Sammy.

Breathing wasn’t easy. The nasal cannula delivering oxygen tickled his nostrils, and his chest rose and fell with a stiffness that felt foreign, like it wasn’t entirely under his control. He wanted to move, to shift just a little, but his body refused to obey. He couldn’t even lift his hand.

Dean blinked slowly, his gaze landing on the figure slumped in the chair next to his bed. Sam. His head was bowed, his shoulders hunched forward, hands gripping the edge of the mattress so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Dean,” Sam murmured, his voice thick and rough. He lifted his head, and Dean could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw. His lips pressed into a thin line as he stared down at Dean.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Sam said softly, his voice trembling. “But if you can… I just, I need to say this.” He exhaled shakily, his hands gripping the bed rail now.

“This is so hard, Dean,” Sam whispered, his voice cracking. “Seeing you like this, it’s killing me. I keep trying to hold it together, to be strong, but… God, I don’t know how much more I can take. You’re my big brother. You’re supposed to be invincible, you know? And now…”

Sam’s voice broke, and he looked away, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean’s sluggish mind latched onto the words, twisting them in ways that made his chest tighten for reasons other than pain. It’s killing me. I don’t know how much more I can take.

Sam didn’t want to be there with him.

Dean’s thoughts came slow and fractured, each one scraping against his consciousness like shards of glass. I did this to him. He hates me. Can’t stand to look at me anymore. Family’s bad, Dean. You’re bad for Sam.

Sam was still talking, his words a blur now, but Dean didn’t try to make sense of them. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve anything but the numbness creeping up from where he couldn’t feel.

The thought drifted sluggishly through his mind, heavy and bitter: Maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is what hell feels like now.

Sam shifted closer, his hand hovering like he wanted to touch Dean but didn’t dare. “Please, Dean,” he said, his voice cracking again. “Just… fight. Please. I need you to fight.”

Dean’s chest hitched, a shallow, stuttering breath that didn’t feel like his own. He couldn’t fight. He didn’t have anything left. The darkness was coming back, creeping at the edges of his vision, and this time, he welcomed it.

At least in the darkness, he didn’t have to see Sam look at him like that. Like he still cared. Like Dean deserved to be saved.

Chapter Text

For days, it had been nothing, just the hollow weight of his brother’s stillness, no sign of Dean behind the empty gaze. Sometimes his eyes would flutter open, but there was no awareness, no spark.

Then Dean had briefly woken the night before, though he hadn’t really responded, his confusion spiralling into panic before slipping away again.

Dean was awake, or, at least, something resembling awake. His eyes were open, but they flickered aimlessly around the room, not landing on anything, not truly seeing. Sam had tried talking to him earlier, asking if he needed water or was too warm, trying to gauge some sign of recognition. But Dean’s responses, if they could be called that, were slow and disjointed: a faint grunt here, a barely perceptible blink there.

Sam shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly as he studied his brother. Dean’s head slightly to the side, his gaze fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder. His arms, once strong and steady, lay limp against the bed, the faintest twitch of his fingers the only sign of movement.

“Dean,” Sam said softly, leaning closer. “Hey, you with me?”

Dean’s eyes fluttered, but they didn’t focus. His lips parted as if he were going to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, he let out a soft, shaky breath and closed his eyes again, his chest rising and falling in uneven patterns.

Sam’s throat tightened as he watched, helplessness clawing at him like a living thing. He felt like he was drowning, like every moment he spent sitting here, watching Dean like this, pulled him deeper under.

This wasn’t Dean, not the Dean he knew, the Dean who could fill a room with his voice, who could bark orders like a general one second and crack a joke the next. The man lying in this bed, barely responsive, struggling to keep his eyes open, wasn’t his brother.

“Come on, man,” Sam muttered, his voice raw. “You’ve gotta fight. You can’t just… you can’t leave me here like this.”

Dean’s eyes opened again, just a crack, and for a fleeting moment, Sam thought he saw something there, confusion, maybe, or frustration. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that blank, faraway stare that made Sam’s stomach churn.

“Do you even know what’s going on?” Sam asked, his voice shaking now. He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, Dean, himself, the empty room. “Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?”

Dean blinked sluggishly, his lips moving faintly like he was trying to form a word. But nothing came out, and the effort seemed to drain him. His eyes slipped closed again, and Sam felt something inside him snap.

“Damn it, Dean!” Sam’s voice cracked, loud and desperate, echoing in the quiet room. “You can’t do this to me! You can’t just… just give up!”

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and started pacing the small space. His hands were trembling, and his chest felt like it was about to cave in under the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know if you’re even still you. And I don’t know if I can…”

His words broke off, choked by the lump in his throat. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to stop the tears that were already spilling over.

“I can’t lose you, Dean,” he said, his voice cracking. “Not like this. Not when I can’t even tell if you’re still in there.”

He turned back toward the bed, his vision blurred with tears. Dean’s face was as still as ever, his expression unreadable, his body motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Sam dropped back into the chair, his head falling into his hands as he finally let himself break. The tears came hard and fast, hot and unrelenting, and he didn’t bother trying to stop them this time.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice muffled against his hands. “Please, Dean. I don’t care how bad it is, I don’t care if you hate me for saying it, but I need you to fight. I need you to come back. You’re all I’ve got, man. You always have been.”

A faint rustle of fabric made him look up, his heart leaping in his chest. Dean’s hand had shifted, his fingers twitching slightly against the blanket. His eyes were open again, half-lidded and heavy, but there was something different this time, something faint, but there.

Recognition.

It was fleeting, barely a flicker, but it was enough to make Sam’s breath catch.

“Dean?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Dean’s lips parted, and he let out a faint, rasping sound that might have been a word, might have been Sam’s name.

Sam reached out, gripping his brother’s hand tightly, his tears falling freely now. “I’m here,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m right here. Just hang on, okay? Just keep fighting.”

Dean didn’t respond, his eyes slipping shut again, but Sam didn’t let go. He stayed there, holding his brother’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the world, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope.

Because for the first time in days, he’d seen a glimmer of the Dean he knew. And as small as it was, it was enough to keep him going.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sat at Dean’s bedside, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly they ached. He hadn’t moved much in hours, except to pace when the anxiety built too high.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, sluggish but unmistakable, like he was trying to push through the heavy fog of unconsciousness. Sam froze, his breath catching as he watched, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Dean?” he called softly, leaning closer. “Hey, man, you with me? Come on, open your eyes. Just a little more.”

There was a flicker, a crack of green beneath swollen lids. Dean’s eyes barely opened, but they moved, unfocused and sluggish, until they landed on Sam. For a second, just a second, there was eye contact.

Sam’s chest tightened. “That’s it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re doing great, Dean. I’m right here. Just keep looking at me, okay?”

Dean’s gaze drifted, his eyes fluttering closed again. But then they opened once more, a little wider this time. His lips parted, dry and cracked, and he smacked them faintly, like he was trying to moisten them. It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but to Sam, it felt monumental.

“Thirsty?” Sam asked quickly, glancing toward his cup of water on the tray table. “Hang on. Let me get the nurse. They’ll get you something for that.”

He reached for the call button but froze when Dean’s fingers twitched. It wasn’t much, just the slightest motion against the sheets, but it was deliberate. Sam’s breath caught.

“Dean?” he pressed, his voice trembling with a fragile hope. “Hey, can you squeeze my hand?” He reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around Dean’s limp hand.

There was no squeeze, no real response, but Dean’s fingers shifted faintly under his touch, like he was trying. Like he was trying so hard.

“You’re doing great,” Sam whispered, his grip firm but careful. “I know it’s hard, but you’re gonna get through this, okay? You’re not alone. You’ve got me, Cas, everyone. Just keep fighting, Dean.”

Dean blinked slowly, his gaze sliding back to Sam, though it was heavy and unfocused. His lips parted again, but no sound came out. Sam’s throat tightened as he realized how much effort it must have taken just to open his eyes, to look at him, to move at all.

“You’re amazing,” Sam said, his voice breaking. He reached up with his free hand, brushing a strand of hair away from Dean’s forehead. “You’re gonna come back from this. I know you will.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut again, his body sinking back into stillness. Sam let out a shaky breath, his hand still cradling Dean’s.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t nearly enough. But it was something.

And for now, that was enough to keep Sam going.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sat by Dean’s bed, his eyes fixed on his brother’s face. It was still pale and gaunt, the bruising still visible across his face, but Sam had started to recognize the small signs of life returning. Dean had opened his eyes a few times now, sluggishly, yes, and never for long, but there was more awareness there. It was more than Sam had dared hope for days ago.

Now, he watched as Dean’s eyelids fluttered, his lips parting faintly as though he was trying to say something. Sam leaned forward, his heart pounding.

“Dean?” he said softly, urgently. “Hey. You’re awake.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open, sluggish and unfocused. His gaze wandered, but eventually, it landed on Sam.

“You’re okay,” Sam said, his voice shaking with a mixture of relief and encouragement. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Dean blinked slowly, his eyes lingering on Sam’s face for just a moment longer before drifting again. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Sam’s throat tighten with emotion.

“You thirsty?” he asked, his voice softening.

He saw the faintest twitch of Dean’s lips, a dry smack as though he was trying to respond. Sam grabbed the cup from the tray table, his hands trembling slightly.

“Let’s try this,” he said gently. “Just a little bit, okay? Don’t try too hard.”

Sam held the straw to Dean’s lips, watching as his brother hesitated before parting his lips ever so slightly. The effort seemed monumental for Dean, but when the straw slipped between his lips, Sam saw the faint movement of his throat as he swallowed.

“Good,” Sam encouraged, his voice warm and proud. “You’re doing great, Dean. Just a little more?”

Dean took another small sip, though it clearly drained him. His hand twitched faintly on the blanket, and Sam’s heart leapt at the tiny movement, even though it lasted only a second.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered again, struggling to stay open, and Sam leaned in closer, desperate to hold onto the connection.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s okay. You can rest. I’ll be right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on Sam’s for a moment longer, something flickering there, maybe recognition, maybe gratitude, or maybe just exhaustion. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dean was there, with him, even if only for these fleeting moments.

Sam watched as Dean’s eyelids drifted closed. Gently, Sam set the cup aside and reclaimed Dean’s hand, holding it in his own. His thumb brushed over Dean’s knuckles, grounding himself as much as he hoped it grounded his brother.

“You’re coming back,” Sam whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I know you are.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been hours since Dean’s last stir of movement, but Sam had refused to leave. Each small sign, every flicker of awareness, felt monumental, like climbing a mountain one tiny step at a time.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the faintest twitch of Dean’s fingers. His breath hitched as he leaned forward, his chair scraping slightly against the floor.

“Dean?” he said, his voice soft but urgent.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, a sluggish and uncoordinated motion, but eventually, they opened. His gaze drifted around the room, unfocused and glassy, but it lingered on Sam longer than before.

“Hey, there you are,” Sam said, his voice trembling with cautious hope. “You’re doing so good, man. Just take it easy.”

Dean’s lips moved, a dry smack as he tried to form some kind of response.

“You thirsty?” Sam asked gently, reaching for the cup on the table. “Hang on, I’ve got you.”

He guided the straw to Dean’s lips, and with visible effort, Dean parted them just enough to take a small sip. Sam watched him swallow, the simple motion somehow both heartbreaking and reassuring.

“Good,” Sam encouraged, his voice warm. “That’s good, Dean. You’re doing great.”

As he set the cup down, he caught a faint twitch in Dean’s arm, like he was trying to lift it but couldn’t quite manage. Sam placed his hand lightly over Dean’s, feeling the minute movements beneath his palm.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, his voice steady. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Just rest.”

The door opened, and Sam glanced up to see Castiel stepping in. The angel looked as worn as Sam felt, his trench coat wrinkled and his eyes dark with concern. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze immediately locking onto Dean.

“How is he?” Cas asked quietly, his voice low but filled with intent.

Sam glanced back at Dean, whose eyes were still open, watching sluggishly but more intently than before. “He’s waking up more,” Sam said, a cautious smile tugging at his lips. “Slowly, but he’s trying.”

Cas stepped closer, standing opposite Sam. “Dean,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “You’re safe. You’re with us.”

Dean’s gaze flickered toward Cas, his brows knitting faintly in an effort to focus. His lips moved again, another dry smack, and Sam quickly reached for the water.

“Here, Dean,” Sam said, holding the straw to his lips. “Just a little more.”

Dean managed another sip, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. Sam couldn’t stop the soft laugh of relief that escaped him.

“You’re in the hospital,” Sam said, his voice calm and steady. “You’ve been through a lot, but you’re getting better. You’re doing so good, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on Sam for a moment longer. His arm twitched again, a jerky, uncoordinated motion, but it was enough to make Sam’s heart swell with hope.

Cas reached out, his hand hovering over Dean’s shoulder for a moment before settling there, light but grounding. “We’re here,” Cas said softly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Dean’s eyelids drooped.

Sam leaned forward, his hand still over Dean’s. “You’re going to be okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to Dean. “We’ve got you.”

As Dean’s eyes drifted shut again, Sam exchanged a glance with Cas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, its hands crawling painfully slow, marking the hours since Dean had last stirred. His brother’s progress was so incremental it felt like watching grass grow, but Sam clung to each small improvement like a lifeline. When the door to the room creaked open, Sam turned to see the physio walking in, clipboard in hand.

"Good morning," she said warmly, giving Dean a once-over. "Time to get some movement in, Dean. We’ll go slow, I promise."

Sam nodded in greeting, his hand still resting on Dean’s. “He’s been... kind of in and out. Just go easy, okay?”

“Of course,” she assured him. “We’ll keep it gentle.”

The physio moved to Dean’s side, her movements confident but careful. “Dean, my name’s Tara. I’m just going to help you with a few small movements, okay? If anything hurts, let me know, or let your brother here tell me for you.”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, his sluggish attempts to open them interrupted by long, heavy blinks. His lips parted in a faint exhale, but no sound came out.

Sam squeezed his hand lightly. “She’s just here to help, Dean. You’re safe.”

Tara gently adjusted the pillows around Dean to support his arms. When she lifted his right arm slightly, Dean winced, a pained moan slipping past his lips. Sam immediately leaned closer.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he said softly, his heart breaking at the sound. “It’s just a stretch. You’re alright.”

Tara stopped immediately, her eyes on Dean’s face. “I’m sorry, Dean. That shoulder’s probably stiff. Let’s try smaller movements.”

She rotated his arm gently, but Dean groaned again, his face twisting in discomfort. Sam reached out, brushing his fingers lightly over Dean’s forearm. “I know it hurts,” he murmured. “Just hang in there.”

As the physio worked through gentle stretches for Dean’s hands and shoulders, his responses were a mix of quiet, pained moans and confused, unfocused gazes at Sam. His breathing quickened, shallow and shaky, and when Tara moved on to his legs, his expression shifted.

Tara carefully adjusted the blanket to expose his legs, explaining as she worked. “Just a little movement here, Dean. This will help prevent stiffness.”

Dean’s brow furrowed as she shifted his foot slightly, then his knee. He blinked down at his legs, the confusion in his eyes deepening. Sam’s stomach clenched as he watched Dean try, unsuccessfully, to move on his own, his gaze darting between his legs and Sam.

“It’s alright,” Sam said quickly, leaning closer. “It’s just the injury, Dean. You’re healing. Don’t push yourself.”

Tears began to well in Dean’s eyes, spilling silently down his bruised cheeks as Tara finished. She replaced the blanket gently and stepped back, her voice soft. “That’s all for today. He did great.”

Sam gave her a tight smile, his throat thick with emotion. “Thanks.”

Tara hesitated, noticing Dean’s tears and the faint, pained grimace still on his face. “He seems uncomfortable. I’ll let his nurse know to give him some pain relief.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, watching as she left the room.

When the door closed, he turned back to Dean. His brother’s eyes were half-lidded, staring unfocused at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Sam wiped the dampness from Dean’s face with a tissue, his voice low and steady.

“You’re okay, Dean,” he said softly. “They’ll bring something for the pain in a minute. You’re doing so good, man. I know it’s hard, but you’re getting better.”

Dean’s lips twitched, and his gaze slowly shifted to Sam’s face. Sam took his hand again, squeezing gently. “I’m right here, okay? You’re not alone.”

When the nurse came in to administer the painkillers, Dean’s breathing had slowed a little, and his eyes were already drifting shut again. Sam watched him, his heart aching with a mix of relief and sorrow.

“You’re gonna get through this,” he whispered, more to himself than Dean. “You’re stronger than you know.”

Chapter Text

The door clicked softly behind Sam as he stepped into the hallway, his eyes lingering on the space where Dean lay. He hadn’t moved in a while, just stared blankly at the ceiling, his breath shallow and uneven. Dean wasn’t talking yet, no words, not really responding, but he wasn’t completely gone either. Sam clung to the smallest victories.

Dr. Parker, a steady presence in the midst of the chaos, was waiting just outside the room. Her expression was a mix of empathy and professionalism, her hands tucked into the pockets of her lab coat as she surveyed Sam.

“How’s he doing?” Dr. Parker asked, her voice low.

Sam scrubbed his face, trying to keep it together. “He’s... here sometimes. Mostly in and out. He seems to be more aware, like... he’s hearing me, but he’s not responding, not really. A couple times, I thought I saw him trying to focus, but it’s hard to tell.”

Dr. Parker nodded, her face thoughtful. “That’s a good sign. It’s slow, but it’s a sign. I know it’s hard, but we just need to keep giving him time and space to process. His brain’s been through a lot, and he’s still adjusting.”

Sam nodded along, but he still felt that tightness in his chest. Watching Dean like this, so far away and unreachable, was killing him. “I just... I don’t want him to be in pain anymore. I want him to talk to me.”

The doctor’s face softened with understanding. “I know. It’ll come. But it’s a long road. Let’s see what we can get out of him today. We’re all hoping for that next step.”

They exchanged a glance, and Sam took a deep breath, walking back into the room as Dr. Parker followed.

Dean hadn’t moved. His eyes were half-closed, and the only sign of life was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Dr. Parker pulled a chair over and sat beside the bed, her tone soft as she addressed Dean. “Hey, Dean. How are you feeling today?”

Dean blinked sluggishly, his gaze slightly unfocused as it drifted toward the doctor’s face. There was no immediate response. Dr. Parker didn’t rush it, giving Dean a moment to process.

“I know you’re probably feeling confused right now,” Dr. Parker continued, her voice low and soothing. “But if you can understand me, I’d like you to try and show me, okay? Just a small sign. A long blink, or maybe move your hand if you can.”

Dean’s eyes were wide open, but they didn’t seem to focus. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Sam watched anxiously, holding his breath.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Dean’s eyelids twitched. Slowly, carefully, his lips parted, and he blinked, long and deliberate, like it took all his energy to do it.

“That’s it, Dean,” Dr. Parker encouraged gently. “You’re doing great. Can you try moving your hand, maybe?”

Dean’s fingers twitched, a barely perceptible movement, and then went still again.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to Sam, who was holding his breath. Sam leaned forward, his hand still resting lightly on Dean’s. “You’re doing good, man.”

Dr. Parker nodded, her tone calm. “It’s normal if it’s hard to follow everything I’m saying, Dean. Just take your time, alright?” She waited a moment, then asked, “Are you having trouble understanding what I’m saying? If you are, give me another sign, maybe nod for me and if you’re not, maybe move your fingers?”

Dean’s eyes blinked again, slow and deliberate, and after a long moment, he gave the faintest nod. The motion was sluggish, but it was there.

Dr. Parker looked back at Sam, her expression gentle but clinical. “It’s okay, Dean. That’s perfectly normal. You’ve had a traumatic brain injury. Your brain’s been through a lot, and it’ll take time to heal. You’re going to be very sleepy, and your body’s going to feel weak for a while.”

Sam watched the doctor carefully, trying to absorb everything she was saying. Dr. Parker continued, speaking slowly, giving Dean time to process the information. “You’ve also hurt your spine, but once the swelling goes down, we’ll assess the damage. Right now, there’s no sign of permanent injury, so we’re hopeful, but it’ll take work and patience.”

Dean’s gaze wandered, unfocused again, and Sam could tell his brother wasn’t taking much in.

“We’ll keep helping you with rehab and movement, Dean. Slowly but surely, you’ll start regaining strength.”

Dr. Parker paused, then added, “Right now, you’ve got a feeding tube in. But soon, we’d like to see you try some food. It’s important, and you’ll need to let Sam know when you’re ready for that. Okay?”

Dean didn’t respond, his breathing slow and shallow as his eyes slipped closed. He looked so small, so exhausted. Sam’s hand tightened around Dean’s, though it seemed to have little effect on his brother.

As the doctor’s words tapered off, Dean’s breathing deepened, slow and steady. His eyelids fluttered, and then his body relaxed, slipping back into unconsciousness.

Sam’s heart twisted. He kept his eyes on Dean, unwilling to look away. “It’s okay, Dean.”

Dr. Parker stood, giving Sam a brief, sympathetic glance. “I know this is hard. But Dean’s tough. He’s making progress, even if it feels like it’s too slow, he’s right on track. Keep being there for him.”

Sam swallowed hard, nodding. “I will. I won’t leave him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam looked at the clock again, he had hoped for more signs of improvement by now, but they were sparse. Dean was awake more often, but when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t relief that Sam saw there, it was disbelief. Like he thought Sam was a ghost, or something conjured by his fractured mind.

Sam tried to talk to him, to reassure him, but Dean never said a word. Most of the time, he just stared, his expression unreadable, before his eyes drifted closed again, retreating into whatever world he seemed more comfortable in.

Physio sessions didn’t help. Sam hated them, hated seeing the pain etched on Dean’s face as the therapists gently worked his stiff, weak muscles. Dean moaned quietly during the exercises, his shoulders and hands trembling under the effort. The worst part was his legs, they didn’t move the way they were supposed to, and Sam could see the confusion in his brother’s eyes every time they tried. It broke him to see Dean so vulnerable, so utterly unlike himself.

After one particularly gruelling session, Sam decided to try feeding Dean. He managed to get a small dish of custard from the nurses and brought it over, sitting by the bed. Dean’s eyes cracked open as Sam approached, sluggishly tracking him.

“Hey, man,” Sam said softly, sitting on the edge of the chair. “Thought maybe you’d want to try something besides water. Just a little custard, huh? It’s soft, easy. Not bad.”

Dean’s lips twitched, more of a grimace than anything, and he turned his head slightly to the side, closing his eyes.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam pressed, holding the spoon up. “You’ve gotta eat. Just a little bit, okay? For me?”

Dean opened his eyes again, just barely, and fixed Sam with a look that could only be described as annoyed. He didn’t bother shaking his head, just closed his eyes again and turned his face further away, pointedly ignoring the spoon hovering near him.

Sam sighed, defeated. “Alright, fine. But this isn’t going away, man. You’ve got to eat something eventually.”

Dean didn’t respond. Sam set the bowl down and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. Moments like this made him feel so helpless, like nothing he did was enough.

At least Dean still let him help with water. Every time, it was the same careful ritual, Sam bringing the cup to Dean’s lips, Dean weakly trying to lift his hand to meet it. Sam would guide his arm, holding it steady so Dean could help him grip the cup with trembling fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Later that evening, Cas walked into the room, his trench coat hanging loosely on his shoulders. He looked tired, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a storm cloud. Sam stood, motioning for Cas to join him in the hallway.

“What’s up?” Sam asked, keeping his voice low.

Cas hesitated, his blue eyes flicking toward the door. “I need to leave for a while,” he said finally, his voice tinged with guilt.

Sam’s stomach sank. “What? Cas, you’ve been a huge help. Dean he’s...” He struggled for words.

“I know,” Cas interrupted gently. “But the angels are lost, scattered. I need to try and bring them together, and I need to continue my search for Metatron. He’s still out there, and he’s still dangerous. If I can find him... perhaps I can stop him from doing further harm.”

Sam nodded slowly, though the thought of Cas leaving made his chest tighten. “Yeah, okay, I get that. But what about Dean? He’s...” Sam trailed off, looking toward the door.

Cas’s gaze softened. “I don’t want to abandon him. Being here, seeing him like this, unable to help… it’s unbearable. But if I can find my grace... Sam, if I can restore my power, I may be able to heal him. Completely.”

Sam’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “You think you can do that?”

“It’s possible,” Cas admitted. “But it will take time, and I can’t make any guarantees. I only know that staying here without my grace... I’m of no use to him like this.”

Sam looked away, swallowing hard. “I don’t want you to go, Cas. But if there’s even a chance you can help him, then... do it. Go. Just promise me you’ll come back.”

“I will,” Cas said firmly. “Dean is my friend. I will not fail him.”

Sam gave a small, reluctant nod. “Alright. Be careful.”

Cas stepped forward, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Take care of him, Sam. He needs you now more than ever.”

With that, Cas turned and left, leaving Sam alone in the hallway. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before stepping back into the room. Dean’s eyes were closed again, his face pale and drawn.

Sam sank into the chair beside him, reaching out to take his brother’s hand. “We’re gonna get you through this, Dean,” he murmured. “You’re not alone. I am not leaving. Not now, not ever.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sat in the quiet hospital room, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as his phone hung loosely in his hands. He wasn’t reading the screen anymore; he couldn’t focus. Most of his attention was fixed on Dean, lying still in the bed.

The days blurred together now, long hours of sitting, waiting, and watching. Dean had been awake more often in the past couple of days, but each time he opened his eyes, it felt like they were starting over. Sam would lean in, speak softly, and hope for some flicker of recognition, but Dean always seemed lost. It was like trying to reach someone through thick fog, Sam could see him, but Dean couldn’t quite see back.

Movement drew Sam’s gaze up. He froze, his heart skipping as he watched Dean’s eyelids flutter. Then, slowly, they opened. His green eyes were dull and glassy, drifting aimlessly around the room before they settled on Sam.

“Hey,” Sam said quickly, setting his phone aside and leaning closer to the bed. He tried to keep his voice steady, calm. “Hey, you with me?”

Dean’s gaze lingered, his brows knitting together in a faint frown, as though he were trying to work out who Sam was. Sam’s chest tightened at the confusion written all over his brother’s face. It wasn’t the first time.

“It’s me,” Sam continued, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s Sam. I’m here.”

Dean’s lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he just stared. Sam wasn’t even sure Dean had understood him, but then there was the barest flicker of something—recognition, maybe?—that passed through his eyes.

“…Sam…”

The sound was faint, more breath than voice, but Sam heard it. His heart stuttered, the air leaving his lungs in a shaky rush. It had been three weeks, three weeks of silence, of nothing but fleeting blinks and restless shifts. Hearing his name, even whispered like that, hit him like a freight train.

“Yeah,” Sam said, his voice thick as he leaned closer. “Yeah, it’s me, Dean. I’m right here.”

Dean’s gaze didn’t waver this time. He looked at Sam like he was trying to piece something together, his eyes searching his brother’s face. Slowly, he gave a soft, almost questioning hum, as if confirming what Sam had said, like he hadn’t fully believed it until now.

Sam’s throat tightened, and he scrubbed a hand over his face to keep himself from breaking down. “That’s right,” he said softly, forcing a small, shaky smile. “It’s Sam.”

Dean didn’t say anything else. He turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. Sam watched him carefully, noting the way his brow furrowed in thought. Dean was awake, really awake, and staying that way. It was progress, even if it was slow and confusing for him.

“You’re doing good,” Sam said after a moment, his voice low. He wasn’t sure if Dean was listening, but he kept talking anyway. “You’re getting there. Little by little, man.”

Dean didn’t respond, but his breathing was steady, his expression thoughtful. Sam couldn’t tell if Dean was processing his words or just lost in his own haze, but either way, he looked more present than he had in weeks.

Sam sat back in his chair, his legs feeling like jelly. He couldn’t take his eyes off Dean, the sound of his name still echoing in his mind. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

And even if Dean didn’t understand how much that one word had meant, Sam would hold onto it. Because it was a reminder that his brother was still in there, and he would fight to come back.

Chapter Text

The world was a haze, shifting and unsteady. Dean blinked sluggishly, the ceiling above him slowly coming into focus. White. Bright. Hospital. The thought surfaced like a bubble breaking through thick mud—slow, sluggish, and fleeting. He stared at the ceiling for a moment longer, his mind struggling to grab onto anything solid. Hospital. Why?

He closed his eyes again, exhaustion already dragging at him, but the faint sound of movement nearby pulled him back. He forced his eyes open. Sam was there, sitting in a chair at his side. Dean blinked, the sight of his brother tugging at something in his chest.

Sam shouldn’t be here.

That thought came with startling clarity, cutting through the fog. He stared at Sam, his brow furrowing slightly. Why was he here? Why was he always here? Dean’s mind spun, trying to grab onto fragments of memory, but they slipped away like smoke through his fingers. He’d hurt Sam, he knew that much. Hurt him bad.

Dean tried to lift his hand, to reach for his brother, but his body didn’t cooperate. His fingers twitched weakly at his side, and that was about it. Everything felt heavy, like lead weights were pressing him into the bed. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cut through the haze, soft but so familiar. Dean’s eyes flicked toward him, his gaze unfocused.

Sam leaned forward, his brow furrowed with worry. “Hey, you with me?”

Dean blinked slowly, the effort it took to process the words almost too much. He didn’t know how to answer, didn’t even know what he’d say if he could. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His head turned slightly, his gaze dropping away from Sam’s face. He couldn’t do this.

“You’re in the hospital,” Sam said gently, leaning closer. “You’ve been hurt, but you’re safe. I’ve got you, okay? Just rest.”

The words barely registered. Dean blinked again, the lids of his eyes heavy. He wanted to ask what had happened, how he’d ended up here, but his thoughts were too scattered. Nothing fit together right. He was so tired.

He closed his eyes again, letting the weight of sleep pull him under.

When he woke again, the room was dim. The sounds of the machines around him beeped softly, steady and constant. Dean stared at the ceiling, his thoughts sluggishly returning. Hospital. Still here. It hurt, he tried to move his legs, to shift his position, but there was... nothing. No sensation, no response.

Panic flickered at the edge of his awareness, but it was muffled, smothered by exhaustion and confusion. His legs didn’t work. He thought the doctor had said something about that. Something about his spine. The memory was blurry, half-formed, but it left a hollow ache in his chest.

Sam’s voice reached him again, soft and coaxing. Dean turned his head slightly, his eyes landing on his brother. Sam was holding something, a cup with a straw.

“Hey, you awake? Here, let me help you with some water.”

Dean stared at him blankly. Water? He wasn’t thirsty. He didn’t want anything. But Sam was already moving, holding the straw to his lips. Dean sighed softly, his breath catching on the motion, and let Sam tilt the straw closer. He took a weak sip, the cool liquid sliding down his throat.

“Good,” Sam murmured. “That’s good, Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes again, God it was hard to keep them open. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve Sam sitting here, taking care of him. He didn’t deserve anything after... after whatever it was he’d done. His thoughts tangled again, memories slipping out of reach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time he woke, Cas was there. Dean blinked at the sight of him, confusion swirling in his chest. Cas looked tired, more worn than Dean had ever seen him.

Dean stared at him, his thoughts sluggishly catching up. Cas shouldn’t be here either. None of them should be. He wanted to tell Cas to leave, to go somewhere safe, he had to get away from him, but the words didn’t come. Everything was so hard, thinking, moving, even breathing. He drifted off again before he could say anything.

Sam was back when Dean woke again. The smell of something faintly sweet reached him, and he glanced at his brother. Sam held a small dish of custard, his face hopeful.

“Thought you might want to try something to eat,” Sam said, sitting down beside him. “Just a little, okay?”

Dean’s stomach churned at the thought. He turned his head away, closing his eyes.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam pleaded softly. “You need to eat something. Please, just a little?”

Dean’s jaw tightened, annoyance flickering in his chest. He wasn’t hungry. Why couldn’t Sam just let it go? He opened his eyes long enough to shoot his brother a tired glare before turning his face away again, his eyes sliding closed.

Sam sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and worry. “Okay,” he muttered. “But you’re not getting out of it forever.”

Dean didn’t answer. He was already slipping back into the darkness, where there was no pain, no confusion. Just nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The haze was thicker this time, heavy and unrelenting. Dean’s eyes fluttered open to slits, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember why he felt so weighed down. Everything hurt. His arms, his shoulders... his chest. It was a dull, gnawing pain, interrupted by sharper, crueller stabs whenever someone touched him.

He blinked sluggishly, catching the blurry outline of someone standing over him. Not Sam. Not Cas. Someone else. Their hands were on his arm, and as they shifted it, a deep ache bloomed through his shoulder. Dean groaned low in his throat, a reflexive sound of discomfort, but the hands didn’t stop.

“It’s okay, Mr. Winchester,” a voice said, calm and clinical. “We’re just getting some movement in your joints, making sure everything stays loose. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Dean blinked again, trying to focus on the voice. Movement? Why? He didn’t understand. All he understood was the pain that came when they pushed his arm higher, the pull at his elbow and wrist that made him groan again, barely audible but full of protest.

“Almost done with this arm,” the voice continued, oblivious to his confusion.

Dean wanted to tell them to stop, to just leave him alone, but he couldn’t work out how. His hand twitched as they stretched his arm out fully, but it wasn’t enough to make them stop.

He closed his eyes again, drifting on the edge of consciousness as the ache in his arm turned into something distant, muffled. Sleep was safer, easier.

The sharp jolt of pain in his other shoulder pulled him back. Dean groaned softly, his head lolling to the side. The hands had moved, now gently manipulating his other arm, pushing it into angles it didn’t want to go. His mind struggled to catch up, to piece together why this was happening.

Why were they doing this to him?

The pressure on his wrist eased, and then his arm was set carefully at his side. Relief came for a brief moment, but it didn’t last. The hands moved again, adjusting something lower down.

Dean frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. He couldn’t feel it. His hips, his legs, there was nothing there. He knew they were touching him, moving him, but all he felt was absence.

“Doing great,” the voice murmured. “We’re just turning you a little to avoid pressure sores. Almost done.”

The words barely made sense. Dean closed his eyes, the pressure on his side making his ribs ache faintly. His exhaustion dragged at him, pulling him back under for a few blissful seconds.

When he stirred again, they were moving his legs. Or at least, he assumed they were. He couldn’t feel it, couldn’t tell. The idea unsettled him, a strange hollow feeling in his chest. He groaned again, low and pitiful, the sound barely audible over his own shallow breaths.

“Sorry,” the voice said softly. “I know this isn’t comfortable. We’ll be finished soon.”

Dean cracked his eyes open, catching a glimpse of a figure bending over him. His vision blurred again, and he closed them, the effort too much to maintain.

It hurt. He didn’t know why it hurt so much, didn’t know why he felt so drained. His thoughts were slippery, sliding away before he could make sense of them. All he knew was that everything was wrong, his body, his legs, the pain, and that he wanted it to stop.

Finally, the hands left him. The bed creaked softly as he was shifted back into place, and the ache in his shoulders settled into something manageable.

“We’ll get you some pain relief,” the voice promised.

Dean didn’t respond. He was too tired, too lost. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, silent and unbidden, but he didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

He drifted off again, the exhaustion too heavy to fight, the pain fading into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quiet didn’t last. Dean stirred sluggishly, his mind pulling him to the surface as the soft murmur of voices broke the stillness. He didn’t want to wake up. Being awake meant feeling, pain, exhaustion, confusion, all of it pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

“Good morning, Dean,” a soft, professional voice greeted. “I’m just going to get you cleaned up, okay? Won’t take too long.”

No. He didn’t know what was coming, but the pit of dread in his stomach tightened all the same. He tried to shift, to move, to show any sign of protest, but his body didn’t cooperate. His arms felt like they were weighed down, his legs... he couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t move them. The hollowness in his chest grew, and his breath hitched.

“Shh, it’s all right,” the nurse said gently, mistaking the small sound for discomfort. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his throat working uselessly to push out words that wouldn’t come. The effort left him dizzy, and he gave up, his head lolling weakly to the side. He could feel the cool air as the blanket was drawn back, exposing him. His cheeks burned, but there was no strength to fight, no way to stop this.

The nurse was kind, her voice calm and soothing as she narrated her actions, but it didn’t matter. Dean hated it. Hated the hands that worked efficiently, touching where he couldn’t feel as the catheter bag was emptied and changed, hated the way his body no longer obeyed him. This wasn’t him. This couldn’t be him.

She cleaned him with practiced ease, carefully washing his skin, replacing the dressing around the catheter site. Dean swallowed hard, his throat tight, the shame choking him. He turned his head slightly, staring at the ceiling, unblinking. His vision blurred, tears stinging his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not where she could see.

“You’re doing great,” she said softly, mistaking his silence for compliance. “Almost done, Dean. I’ll let you rest soon.”

Rest. As if that would fix anything. His chest ached, not just from the broken body but from something deeper, a pain he couldn’t name. He wasn’t a man anymore. He wasn’t even a shadow of one. He was nothing, helpless, broken.

The nurse’s hands were steady as she finished her work, pulling the blanket back over him, tucking it carefully around his shoulders. “There we go. All set,” she said, her tone light but warm. “I’ll let your brother know you’re settled.”

Dean didn’t react. He couldn’t. His body wouldn’t let him, and his mind was too full of static to think beyond the moment. His breaths came shallow and uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to disappear. When the nurse finally left, the soft click of the door closing behind her, the room fell silent again.

He stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently down his face. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. Not that he could. He couldn’t stop this. Couldn’t stop anything.

Chapter Text

Sam shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his palms against his jeans as his gaze flicked to his brother. Dean lay on the bed, his head tilted slightly to one side, eyes open but unfocused, staring up at the ceiling.

“Dean?” Sam tried, leaning forward, his voice soft but clear.

It took a moment, but Dean’s eyes shifted toward him, slow and deliberate. He blinked a few times, his brow furrowing as though he were trying to process the sound of his name.

Sam forced a smile, even as his chest tightened. “Hey. You with me?”

Dean’s lips parted, and after a long moment, he rasped, “…Yeah.”

The sound was faint, barely audible, but it was there. A word, a response. Sam clung to it like a lifeline, but the hope was quickly overshadowed by the emptiness in Dean’s gaze. He didn’t look away from Sam, but it was hard to tell if he was really seeing him.

“You, uh, you need anything?” Sam asked, his tone light.

But Dean just blinked at him, his eyes drifting shut for a moment before snapping back open. His expression didn’t change, and when he finally spoke, his voice was strained and halting. “…Cold.”

Sam frowned and reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulling it up to cover Dean’s chest. “Better?” he asked, tucking it gently around him.

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. Sam sat back, watching him carefully, his stomach churning with worry.

Dean had been awake more often lately, but it wasn’t the kind of awake Sam had been hoping for. He was… vacant. Slow to respond, easily confused. Conversations, not that you could even call them that, were a struggle, fragmented and one-sided. And when Dean wasn’t struggling to stay awake, he was staring blankly at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion catching up to him in waves. He didn’t know what was worse, when Dean had been completely unconscious, or now, when he was awake but so far away.

What was Dean thinking about, if anything? Did he even know what was happening to him?

Sam’s gaze drifted to the feeding tube secured at Dean’s nose, the IV line snaking into his arm, the catheter bag hanging from the bed frame. The nurse had been in earlier to change Dean’s gown, to clean him, to adjust his position and make sure he wasn’t developing pressure sores. Dean had barely responded, his face blank as they moved his limp limbs like he wasn’t even there.

The bruises that had once marred Dean’s skin, dark and furious, had faded completely, leaving him almost untouched by what he’d endured. There was only the faintest shadow of discolouration near his ribs, a ghost of what had been. The small scar above his temple was all that remained of the deep gash from the accident.

His hair, or at least the shaved sections of his head, was growing back. At first, it had been patchy and uneven, the sharp line of the craniotomy obvious. But as the weeks passed, the soft regrowth began to fill in, blending with the rest of his hair. Eventually, the hair would cover any evidence that Dean had even needed brain surgery and the potentially devastating long-term impacts.

The rest of his hair was longer now too, messier than Dean would ever let it get. He would hate it, Sam thought smiling, since he was always ribbing Sam about needing a haircut. They’d probably need to get it trimmed soon, something closer to one length so it didn’t look so ragged. At least the nurses had been shaving his face.

His gaze dropped to Dean’s body. The brace still encased his spine, rigid and unyielding, a constant reminder of how fragile he was. The cast on his left ankle hadn’t changed, either, though Sam knew it wouldn't be long before it was removed.

Dean had put on weight since he’d been admitted, thanks to the feeding tube, but it wasn’t much. He was still too skinny in Sam’s opinion, his shoulders sharper than they should be, his wrists too thin beneath the IV tape. It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until Dean was sitting up on his own, cracking a sarcastic remark about Sam hovering too much.

Sam’s throat tightened, Dean had always been so physical, so active, so alive. To see him reduced to this, weak, motionless, dependent on strangers for even the most basic needs, was almost more than Sam could bear.

He stared down at his hands, his mind spiralling. Would Dean ever come back from this? Would he ever move on his own again, eat real food, crack a joke, give Sam that exasperated look he’d perfected over the years? Or was this it? Was this blank, fragile shell all that was left of his brother?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Parker entered the room quietly, her calm presence immediately drawing Sam’s attention. She nodded briefly at him before stepping to Dean’s bedside, her movements measured and soothing.

“Dean,” the doctor greeted softly, crouching slightly to meet Dean’s sluggish gaze. “How are you feeling today?”

Dean didn’t respond, his brow furrowing faintly as though trying to process the question.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Parker said gently, her tone patient and reassuring. “You don’t need to talk. If you can understand me, could you nod or shake your head?”

Sam leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, holding his breath as he watched Dean intently. After a long pause, Dean’s head tilted in the faintest of nods, just enough to count. Relief surged through Sam like a tidal wave, loosening the tension that had been coiled in his chest.

“Good,” Dr. Parker said with a small, encouraging smile. “You’ve been making progress. Do you remember why you’re here?”

Dean’s brow furrowed deeper, his expression clouded with uncertainty, and after another pause, he gave a slow, hesitant shake of his head.

“That’s okay,” the doctor reassured him quickly, her voice steady. “You hit your head and hurt your spine, but you’re getting better. You’ll feel tired and weak for a while, but that’s normal.”

Dean blinked slowly, his face unreadable, but Sam caught a flicker of something in his brother’s eyes, fear, confusion, maybe both.

“Dean,” Dr. Parker said again, her tone softening further. “Are you having trouble following me?”

Dean hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly between her and Sam, before giving another faint nod.

“Alright,” she said gently. “That’s okay too. It’s not unusual after a head injury like yours. What you’re experiencing is called aphasia. It just means the part of your brain that helps with speech and understanding words is healing. This should improve over time, especially with therapy.”

Dean’s frown deepened, his expression shadowed by frustration, but Dr. Parker remained calm.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she added. “But the progress you’re making is a good sign. It’s going to take time, but you’re on the right track. Just keep resting and letting your body heal.”

Dr. Parker glanced at Sam, who was watching the exchange with an intensity that bordered on desperation. She softened her tone even further, her voice kind but clinical. “Sam, I’ve got some good news.”

Sam straightened, his brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

“We’re going to transfer Dean out of the ICU,” she said, her smile warm but measured. “He’ll still be in a high-dependency ward, so he’ll get a lot of care and attention. But he’s stable enough now that he doesn’t need to be in intensive care any more.”

Sam blinked, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s… that’s a good thing, right?”

Dr. Parker nodded firmly. “It’s very good. It means he’s moving in the right direction. The high-dependency ward will continue monitoring him closely, keep up with his pain and will support him through the next steps in his recovery.”

Sam exhaled a shaky breath, a mix of relief and apprehension washing over him. He glanced at Dean, who seemed to be struggling to follow the conversation but had picked up on enough to look faintly confused.

“You hear that, Dean?” Sam said softly, leaning closer. “You’re doing better, man. They’re moving you out of here because you’re kicking ass.”

Dean’s lips twitched faintly, whether in acknowledgment or not, Sam couldn’t tell.

Dr. Parker adjusted Dean’s blanket slightly, her movements gentle. “He’s going to need a lot of rest, Sam,” she said quietly. “But this is progress, and we’ll keep building on it. Keep encouraging him. It’s helping. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”

Sam nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He watched as Dr. Parker left the room, her calm presence leaving behind a fragile hope that he clung to desperately.

“See, Dean?” Sam whispered, his voice thick. “One step at a time, man. We’re gonna get through this.”

He grabbed the small cup of custard from the bedside table, twisting the spoon lightly in his hand as he eased his chair closer.

“Okay,” Sam started gently, his voice calm but coaxing. “Let’s try this again, huh? You gotta eat, man. I know it’s not exactly a burger, but just a little bit. Just for me, alright?”

Dean’s gaze shifted to him, slow and unfocused. Sam offered a small, teasing grin.

“You can’t say no to these eyes, dude,” He continued, leaning in slightly. “Puppy dog eyes at full power. You know how this works. You don’t stand a chance.”

Dean’s lips twitched, a flicker of reluctant irritation that Sam knew so well. It was faint, but it was there, and Sam felt an almost ridiculous wave of relief. Slowly, Dean opened his mouth just enough.

“That’s my boy,” Sam murmured, his voice warm as he carefully fed him a small spoonful.

Dean grimaced as he swallowed, his expression briefly twisting in discomfort, but he managed it. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his exhaustion palpable, but Sam couldn’t help but grin.

“See?” Sam said, his tone light and encouraging. “Not so bad. One bite down. You’re a champ, man.”

He prepared another spoonful, watching Dean closely. But this time, Dean turned his head slightly, closing his eyes as if signalling enough was enough.

“Alright, alright,” Sam relented, setting the cup down and raising his hands in surrender. “I got it, man. Turn your head and close your eyes when you don’t want food, message received.” He smirked faintly, keeping his voice easy.

“One’s a good start,” Sam added softly, his grin fading into something gentler. “You’re doing great, Dean. Really.”

Dean didn’t respond, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling like he was deep in thought, his expression unreadable. Sam leaned back in his chair, his hand gripping the edge of the cup idly as he watched his brother. Every small step forward mattered, and this… this counted. Dean was still here, and that was everything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was pacing, his back protesting after hours of sitting. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Visiting hours were almost over, and the thought of returning to his lumpy motel mattress made him sigh. It wasn’t much of a reprieve, just a temporary crash pad between these long days of waiting and worrying. He had thought about finding something more permanent, but the motel was cheap and convenient.

The quiet was broken by a sudden shift in Dean’s breathing. It quickened, hitching slightly, like he was caught in a dream that was anything but restful. Sam walked over, leaning in closer.

“Dean?” he called softly, his voice low but urgent.

Dean’s brow furrowed, a faint twitch passing across his features. His breathing hitched again, shallower now, and Sam reached out, resting a hand lightly on his brother’s arm.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sam murmured, trying to steady his voice. “You’re safe, Dean. I’m right here.”

After a tense moment, Dean’s breathing evened out slightly, and his eyelids fluttered open sluggishly. He blinked against the soft light of the room, his gaze unfocused and hazy.

“Hey,” Sam said again, softer this time. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Dean’s eyes shifted toward him, his brow furrowing faintly as though trying to make sense of his surroundings. His lips moved, forming a faint, indistinct sound. “…’pend…”

Sam frowned, his stomach knotting at the strained effort Dean was making. “What? Append? Dean, what are you trying to…”

Dean blinked slowly, frustration clear in his weary expression. His mouth moved again, his gaze almost pleading.

Sam’s mind raced, replaying the faint syllables until the pieces clicked into place. “Oh. What happened?”

Dean’s face barely moved, but the faintest nod confirmed it. Sam swallowed hard, leaning closer to make sure Dean heard him. “You fell, Dean. You hurt yourself pretty bad, but you’re getting better.”

Dean’s brow creased slightly, as though struggling to process the words. Sam kept his tone steady, calm, the way Dean had always done for him during their roughest moments.

“You’re safe now,” Sam continued, his voice firm but gentle. “I’ve got you, man.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on him, exhaustion so deep it seemed to weigh down every movement, every flicker of expression. His eyes stayed on Sam for a long moment, as if grounding himself in the familiar.

Finally, Dean’s eyelids drooped, his body slackening slightly. He didn’t fall back asleep, but his gaze shifted to the ceiling, his expression pensive and distant, like he was trying to piece together the fragments of his scattered thoughts.

Sam sat back in the chair, the tension in his chest easing a fraction. He let his hand drop to his lap, fingers curling around the armrest.

“You’re going to be okay,” Sam whispered, the words meant as much for himself as for his brother. His voice broke just slightly at the end, but he didn’t care. “You have to be.”

Chapter Text

The steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the hospital room, a rhythmic pulse that Sam had tuned out after days of sitting by Dean’s side. But as Dean stirred, a frown creased his face, and his eyes drifted upward toward the monitor. A low groan escaped his lips, laced with frustration and pain.

“Sammy…” Dean rasped, his voice barely audible. His gaze lingered on the monitor, his expression tight with discomfort as he forced out the words. “Noisy...ples…stop.”

Sam leaned forward immediately, worry etching lines into his face. “Alright, Dean, hang on,” he murmured, brushing his hand against Dean’s forearm in a gesture of reassurance. He pressed the call button, his fingers lingering near Dean’s wrist, grounding himself in his brother’s presence.

Dr. Harris appeared a moment later, clipboard in hand, his expression calm and approachable. “What’s going on?” he asked, stepping into the room.

Sam looked up, his worry plain. “He’s saying it's too noisy,” he explained. “And he looks like he’s in pain. He’s been frowning since he woke up. Could the headache be worse?”

The doctor nodded and approached the bed. “That’s possible,” he said, his tone understanding. He crouched slightly to be more at Dean’s level. “Dean, I need to ask you a few things, alright? Can you tell me, how bad is the pain? Is it just your head, or anywhere else?”

Dean swallowed thickly, blinking sluggishly as his gaze shifted in Dr. Harris’s general direction but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Head,” he muttered. His voice cracked, and he paused before continuing, each word slow and deliberate. “Hurts…bad. All…over.”

Dr. Harris gave a small nod of acknowledgment, his voice steady and soothing. “Okay, I hear you. Are you feeling dizzy, Dean? Does the room feel like it’s spinning?”

Dean’s lips pressed together, his eyes fluttering closed. After a beat, he gave a faint, “Hmm,” in agreement, his brow furrowing more tightly. Sam’s stomach twisted at the sound, the helplessness in his brother’s tone cutting deep.

“What about nausea?” Dr. Harris pressed gently, leaning closer. “Do you feel sick?”

Dean’s response was even softer this time, a faint, guttural hum as his hand weakly shifted against the blanket. His breathing hitched slightly, and Sam instinctively reached out, his palm hovering protectively near Dean’s shoulder.

Dr. Harris straightened, his expression thoughtful as he turned to Sam. “The headache, dizziness, and nausea are all consistent with a TBI,” he explained quietly. “The brain’s still healing, and things like bright lights, noise, and movement can amplify his discomfort. That also explains the unfocused eyes. He is going to have trouble concentrating or tracking movements, especially when he’s fatigued.”

Sam nodded, his hand resting lightly on Dean’s wrist. “Can you help him with it? He looks miserable.”

“I can,” Dr. Harris assured him, his voice kind. “First, let’s get rid of the heart monitor. He’s been stable for long enough now, and there’s no immediate need to keep it on. That alone should help with the noise and comfort.” He moved to silence the machine, and the sudden quiet felt like a relief, a weight lifting from the room.

Once the monitor was disconnected, Dr. Harris turned back to Dean, gently adjusting his IV. “I’ll also adjust the pain medication to take the edge off the headache and help with the nausea. It won’t make it all go away, but it should make him more comfortable.”

He paused, crouching again to meet Dean’s gaze. “Dean, I’m going to check your pupils now, okay? Just hold still for me.”

Dean barely responded, but he didn’t resist as the small flashlight flickered across his eyes. He winced slightly, his face twisting in discomfort, but he stayed still. Dr. Harris clicked the flashlight off and nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Your pupils are reactive, which is a good sign. No indication of anything more serious right now.”

He jotted a quick note on his clipboard before addressing Sam again. “I’ll have the nurse bring in the medication shortly. It’ll likely make him drowsy, which isn’t a bad thing. Rest is the best thing for him right now.”

Sam exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Thanks, Doc,” he said softly. He turned back to Dean, his thumb brushing gently over his brother’s knuckles. “Hey, it’s quieter now,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “And they’ll get you something for the headache and the nausea soon. You’ll feel better.”

Dean’s lips twitched faintly, a shadow of a nod following. His eyes drifted closed again, his exhaustion clearly winning out. Sam stayed where he was, his hand still resting on Dean’s, as the silence wrapped around them like a fragile promise of peace.

A few hours later, the door opened, and a soft voice filled the room. “Alright, Dean, ready to do some work?” It was Melanie, the rehabilitation therapist.

Dean’s response was immediate, a soft, almost inaudible growl of protest as he scrunched his face and turned his head away. He wasn’t in the mood for this today, that was obvious.

“No” Dean muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes darting toward Sam. He seemed to sink deeper into the bed, clearly trying to avoid any sort of interaction. His arms moved slightly as if he was trying to move them away but didn’t have the energy or strength to do so.

Sam could feel the frustration building in Dean, even though his brother was too exhausted to really voice it. Sam stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “Melanie, can you give me a few suggestions, maybe a couple of techniques we can try? He’s just not having it right now.”

Melanie nodded without hesitation, understanding the situation. “Of course. We can take it slow.”

She moved to the side, leaving Sam with some of the tools she used to encourage his recovery. Sam shifted closer to Dean, pulling his attention away from the therapist. “Hey, man,” Sam said softly, trying to keep his tone gentle but firm enough to get through the fog clouding Dean’s thoughts. “We’ve gotta try a little bit, okay? Just some small stuff. We’ll take it slow.”

Dean’s hand twitched in response, a small movement, but it was there. Sam took advantage of it, gently wrapping Dean’s hand around the water cup. As Dean’s fingers trembled, Sam slid his other hand under Dean’s elbow, carefully supporting the weight of his arm.

“Here, Dean. Drink a little,” Sam encouraged, his voice warm and steady as he began guiding the movement. With Dean’s hand weakly gripping the cup and Sam helping to stabilize the motion, they worked together to bring the cup toward Dean’s mouth.

Dean stared at the water, his gaze flicking to Sam’s face with a flicker of gratitude. Slowly, painstakingly, he tilted the cup with Sam’s assistance, managing a small sip. A faint wince crossed his features as he swallowed, but he managed to pull away after a moment, his arm trembling in Sam’s steady hold.

“You’re doing great, man,” Sam said softly, keeping Dean’s hand steady on the cup for another attempt. “See? You’ve got this.”

Dean blinked at Sam, exhaustion heavy in his expression. “Sam... it's.. hard...” His voice was hoarse and barely audible, weighted with effort.

“I know,” Sam said, his voice gentle but encouraging. “But we’re making progress. You’re doing amazing, Dean. Just one step at a time.”

Dean’s eyes began to flutter shut again, his strength drained, but Sam held onto the moment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. Small victories. They all counted.

Melanie observed quietly from a distance, then spoke softly to Sam. “You’re doing well with him. Just keep guiding him at his pace, and don’t push too hard. He’s already working hard enough.”

Sam nodded, a small smile breaking through as he looked at Dean, his heart swelling with pride. “Yeah, I got him,” Sam murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against Dean’s hand. “He’s gonna get there.”

Dean let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam trudged down the hospital hallway, juggling a large coffee and a paper bag filled with pastries he barely remembered picking out. The stale motel air still clung to him, and the ache in his neck from the lumpy mattress wasn’t going away anytime soon, though he did need to get some more cash.

He pushed open the door to Dean’s room, internally groaning at the sight in front of him. Dean was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. A tray of untouched breakfast sat on the rolling table beside the bed.

Sam paused, unsure whether he should step in. Did the nurse try already? Did Dean refuse, or did he just ignore her? He sighed quietly, resigning himself to what would probably be the first battle of the day.

“Hey,” Sam greeted, his voice soft as he stepped further into the room.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, then back to the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Sam set his coffee and bag on the counter and moved closer to the bed. “What’s going on? You didn’t touch your breakfast.” He nodded toward the tray. “You hungry?”

Dean turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing like he was trying to make sense of the question. “No,” he rasped finally, his voice barely audible.

“Come on, man,” Sam said, pulling the chair closer to sit down. He tried to keep his tone light, though he felt the frustration creep in. “You’ve got to eat something.”

Dean looked at him again, his confusion clear as though the concept of breakfast itself didn’t quite land.

Sam pressed his lips together, about to push again, when Dean’s gaze shifted to him fully. For a moment, he just stared, something flickering in his tired eyes. Then, finally, a low, raspy whisper broke through.

“…Why… here?”

Sam’s smile faltered. He leaned closer. “Why are you here?”

Dean’s face twisted in frustration. He shook his head slightly, wincing at the effort. “No… you.”

“Why am I here?” Sam clarified gently, his heart sinking.

Dean gave the faintest nod, his eyes already wet. His gaze darted away, unable to meet Sam’s. “…Bad…” he mumbled, so softly that Sam almost missed it.

“What?” Sam asked, his chest tightening. “Dean, what are you—”

“Bad,” Dean repeated, the word trembling on his lips. He swallowed hard, his hand twitching weakly against the blanket. “You…p… mad.”

Sam felt like the air had been punched out of him. His brother’s voice was broken, barely audible, and yet the weight of those words hit him like a freight train. “Mad?” Sam echoed, his throat tightening. “Dean, no. I’m not mad at you.”

Dean’s head shifted slightly, his expression bleak and distant. “…Should be. I’m…” He trailed off, his jaw working as if he were trying to find the rest of the sentence. “…Bad. This…” He swallowed, his voice faltering. “…Puni..ment.”

Sam’s heart broke in two. “No, Dean. No, no, no.” He shook his head fiercely, leaning closer. “This isn’t punishment. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dean’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the blanket covering him, a flicker of shame crossing his face. “…Toilet,” he muttered, the word strained and bitter, barely audible.

Sam froze, the weight of it hitting him like a punch. The catheter was necessary, Dean couldn’t feel or control his bladder or bowels anymore. The nurses managed it, emptying bags and cleaning him as needed. Dean hadn’t mentioned it before, but now, hearing that single, devastated word, Sam felt his chest tighten painfully. The raw vulnerability in his brother’s voice was almost too much to bear.

He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “Dean…” he started, hesitating. “I know it’s…” He cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Dean felt. If it were him, he’d hate it. Despise it. But this wasn’t about pity. It wasn’t about shame. Dean wasn’t being punished. He was hurt.

“Listen to me,” Sam said softly, leaning closer, his voice steady. “This isn’t about anything you did. It’s not punishment. It’s just your body healing, okay? You’re hurt, Dean. That’s all. And we’ll deal with this, just like we deal with everything else. Together.”

Dean’s eyes finally flicked back to Sam, glazed with confusion and something darker. “…Don’t… member,” he murmured. “But bad…. you… mad. I know…”

“Dean…” Sam started carefully, keeping his voice calm and measured. “You don’t remember why you think that?”

Dean hesitated, then gave the faintest shake of his head. His jaw clenched, his expression lost.

“It’s okay,” Sam said gently. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you think happened, it wasn’t important.” He leaned forward, his voice firm but soft. “What matters is you getting better. And I’m here to help you do that.”

Dean’s eyes flickered with something, uncertainty, maybe doubt. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Sam reached out and gripped the side of the bed, his fingers curling tightly around the metal railing. “Dean,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m not mad at you. I swear, I’m not. I’m here because you’re my brother, and you’re hurt, and I want to help you. That’s it. Nothing else matters. Not whatever you’re thinking, not whatever you think you’ve done. I don’t care about any of that right now.”

Dean blinked at him, his brow furrowing deeper as he tried to process Sam’s words. He looked so lost, so defeated, like he was carrying the weight of the world.

“…Why?” Dean asked finally, the word barely audible.

“Why?” Sam echoed, his throat tightening. “Because you’re my brother, Dean. Because you’d do the same for me… you have done the same for me. A million times over.” He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to stay steady for Dean’s sake. “So don’t sit there thinking you’re bad, or that I’m mad at you, or that this is some kind of punishment. None of that is true. You’re my brother. That’s all that matters.”

Dean’s lips moved as if he were trying to say something, but no sound came. His eyes searched Sam’s face, wet and unfocused, and then darted downward. His expression twisted, torn between frustration and something more fragile, like a child trying to make sense of something too big to comprehend.

“Dean,” Sam said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re here because you got hurt, okay? That’s it. You’re not bad. And I’m not mad at you. I just want to help you get better. That’s all.”

Dean’s gaze flicked back up to meet Sam’s, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something, a glimmer of understanding, maybe, or trust. He nodded faintly, though the movement seemed to take every ounce of his strength.

Sam let out a shaky breath, his hand trembling as he reached out to lightly grip Dean’s arm. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’ve always been there for me, man,” he whispered. “So don’t you dare think for one second I wouldn’t do the same for you.”

Dean’s eyes softened slightly, his head tipping just the smallest amount toward Sam’s touch. And then he turned his head back the ceiling, lost in thought.

Sam stayed there, his hand still resting on Dean’s arm. His brother might be fractured, but he was still here, and Sam would be damned if he let him think, even for a second, that he wasn’t worth saving.

Sam’s gaze drifted back to the cold, untouched breakfast. He’d thought the first battle of the day would be getting Dean to eat something, but now… now he wasn’t so sure. Dean thinking he was bad, thinking Sam was mad at him, cut deeper than Sam expected.

Does that mean he’s remembering things?

The thought made his stomach churn. If Dean was starting to piece together fragments of what had happened, of everything he’d carried leading up to this… Sam couldn’t let himself get dragged down by the guilt, not now. They needed to be focused on recovery, not wallowing.

He straightened in his chair, determination rising in his chest. “Alright,” he murmured, forcing some lightness into his tone as he glanced at the tray. “First things first, you’ve got to eat, man. Just a little…”

But when he looked back, Dean’s eyes were closed once more, his face slack with exhaustion.

Sam let out a soft sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed a hand over his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam walked briskly through the hospital hallway, balancing the takeout box from the cafeteria in one hand and a cup of lukewarm coffee in the other. He’d barely spent five minutes away from Dean, just long enough to grab something quick and close by. The food wasn’t great, but at least it was nearby, he didn’t want to be any farther than he had to be.

As he rounded the corner toward Dean’s room, he nearly collided with Dr. Harris.

“Sam,” the doctor greeted, stepping aside with a small smile.

“Hey, uh, Dr. Harris,” Sam said, stopping awkwardly. He shifted the coffee to his other hand, glancing down the hall. “I was just about to head back to Dean. Can I ask you something real quick?”

“Of course.”

Sam hesitated, then sighed. “Why is he still so sleepy? He’s barely awake. It’s like… he’s there for a few… for a little while, then he’s out again. Is that normal?”

Dr. Harris nodded, his expression calm and reassuring. “Dean is still in the early stages of his recovery. Fatigue or sleepiness is common after a head injury, especially this severe. Dean is also on some pretty strong painkillers right now, which is contributing. They’re necessary to manage the pain from his injuries.”

“But it’s been a month since the accident,” Sam pressed. “Shouldn’t he be… I don’t know, needing less of that by now?”

“It’s a good question,” Dr. Harris replied, his tone patient. “Thoracic and spinal injuries are notoriously painful. There are a lot of nerves in that area, and they can stay irritated for a long time as the body heals. On top of that, brain injuries can complicate things further. Aside from the effects of the TBI, sometimes the brain misinterprets the signals it’s receiving, which can feel like he is burning, tingling, or even electric shocks. Those kinds of sensations can be incredibly uncomfortable.”

Sam frowned, his grip tightening on the coffee cup. “So, what, he’s just… stuck like this until the pain stops?”

“Not exactly. The more responsive Dean is, the better we can understand and treat the pain he’s experiencing. He’s actually made a lot of progress in the last couple of days, but we do need to watch for potential complications like hypersomnia. For now, though, the priority is keeping him comfortable and letting his body get the rest it needs to heal.”

Sam nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. “I just… I want him back, you know? I don’t want him to be in pain, or asleep all the time, or confused. I just want my brother back.”

Dr. Harris placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, his expression sympathetic. “I know it’s hard. But considering the severity of his injuries, Dean is lucky to have made it this far. We need to take it a day at a time. I understand how slow it feels, but he’s heading in the right direction. It’s going to take time.”

Sam swallowed, his throat tight, but the doctor’s words brought him a small measure of reassurance. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Hang in there,” Dr. Harris said before continuing down the hallway.

As Sam walked into Dean’s room, his eyes caught on the tray of lunch that must have been delivered just minutes ago. It was basically just gelatin, hardly a meal, but more a supplement to the feeding tube and part of the process to get Dean back to eating real food.

The untouched breakfast was still sitting on the side table, cold and forgotten. Dean hadn’t eaten all morning, and the sight of both meals sitting there unused sent a pang of guilt twisting through Sam’s gut.

He stood and moved to the bedside, placing a hand gently on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey,” he called softly, leaning close. “Dean, come on. You’ve got to eat something.”

Dean stirred slightly, a faint groan escaping him as his eyelids fluttered. Sam pressed on. “Figured you might be hungry,” he said gently, his tone encouraging as he rolled the table closer, uncovering the small dish of gelatin.

Dean blinked slowly, his expression unreadable. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t look particularly thrilled either. His lips parted as though to protest, but nothing came out except a light cough.

“Just a few bites,” Sam coaxed, pulling his chair closer. “Come on, man.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on the tray, then flicked up to Sam, his hesitation clear. But eventually, he gave the faintest nod.

Sam grabbed a spoon, dipping it into the gelatin. “Let’s try this first,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sliding a hand under Dean’s to guide him toward the spoon, he felt Dean resist, his brows furrowing in silent frustration.

“…got it,” Dean rasped, his voice hoarse but determined.

Sam hesitated, then let him take control. Dean’s hand trembled as he grasped the spoon, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The gelatin wobbled precariously, and Sam reached out instinctively, steadying Dean’s wrist just enough to keep the spoon on track.

“Take it slow,” Sam murmured.

Dean managed to bring the spoon to his lips, eating it, but his grip faltered as he set it down with a soft clatter. He coughed lightly, his jaw tightening in clear frustration.

“You’re doing good,” Sam said, his voice quiet and steady.

Dean’s eyes flicked up to him briefly, his expression unreadable, before he looked away. Sam couldn’t imagine how humiliating this must feel for him. If their roles were reversed, he knew he’d hate it.

“You don’t have to eat much,” Sam added carefully, sensing Dean’s patience thinning. “Just a little.”

Dean allowed a few more bites, though his discomfort was written all over his face. After a few moments, Sam finally asked, “You wanna stop?”

Dean nodded faintly, letting the spoon fall onto the tray. Sam wiped his mouth with a napkin, the small, intimate gesture making Dean look impossibly fragile.

Lifting the cup of water, Sam brought the straw to Dean’s lips. “Just a sip,” he coaxed.

Dean complied, though his hand barely managed to grip the cup. Sam steadied it for him, moving slowly and deliberately.

When it was done, Dean leaned back into the pillows, his chest rising and falling heavily. His eyes opened halfway, meeting Sam’s gaze briefly, something unreadable flickering there.

“You’re doing good, Dean,” Sam said softly.

Dean didn’t respond, his eyelids drooping again. But before he let sleep pull him under, his gaze fixed on Sam for a beat longer, a flicker of something behind the haze.

“Sure… Sammy,” Dean muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He paused, his gaze fixed on Sam like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Mad.”

Sam frowned, leaning in closer. “No, Dean. I told you, I’m not mad at you.”

But Dean didn’t look convinced. He shook his head faintly, his brow furrowing. “Mad,” he insisted, though the word came out more like a sigh. “You mad… ‘m sure.”

Sam’s chest ached at the quiet certainty in Dean’s voice. “Dean, I’m not mad,” he said firmly. “I’m right here. You’d know if I was mad. I wouldn’t be here if I was mad.”

Dean blinked again, his lips pressing together as if he were thinking that over. His gaze drifted past Sam for a moment, unfocused, before settling back on him. “But… no Cas,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

Sam froze for a heartbeat, his throat tightening. He didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to feed into whatever spiral of guilt Dean had trapped himself in. “Cas was here,” Sam said softly, carefully. “He’s not mad at you either.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, his face twisting into something pained and uncertain. “Hmm… was…” he rasped. “Knows.” His head tilted to the side, just barely, as he pushed the words out. “Knows… bad. Me.”

Sam shook his head immediately, the denial already on his lips. “Dean, that’s not true,” he said, keeping his voice calm even though his heart was breaking. He rested a hand gently on Dean’s arm. “Cas isn’t gone because of you. He’s out there trying to fix things, trying to find his grace so he can come back and help you.”

Dean’s lips twitched, his jaw tightening like he didn’t believe a word of it. “Bad…” he muttered, almost inaudible. “Was… wrong to him.”

Sam exhaled slowly, his hand squeezing Dean’s arm lightly, grounding him. “You weren’t wrong to him,” Sam said, his voice steady. “Cas doesn’t think that. He’s worried about you, Dean. That’s why he had to leave for a bit, to make things right so he could help you. I promise.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, his eyelids already growing heavier. “Promise…” he whispered, like he was testing the word. His fingers twitched faintly under Sam’s hand, the movement so small it might have been nothing.

“I promise,” Sam repeated firmly, his grip steady. “Cas isn’t mad, and I’m not mad. You’re not bad, Dean. You’ve just gotta believe me.”

But Dean’s eyes were already slipping shut, his breathing slowing as exhaustion pulled him under again. Sam sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He watched Dean for a long moment, his heart breaking at the guilt and confusion clouding his brother’s mind.

Chapter Text

That morning, Dean asked again.

Sam hadn’t been surprised, this wasn’t the first time Dean had forgotten they’d talked about it. Dean’s confusion wasn’t as bad as it had been in the ICU, but it lingered, casting shadows over their conversations. The same questions repeated, as if his mind couldn’t hold onto Sam’s reassurances long enough for them to stick, or he just didn’t believe him.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice had been rough and hesitant, the words tumbling out with effort. His tired green eyes searched Sam’s face like he didn’t believe the answer he already knew.

Sam sighed softly, sitting down beside the bed and leaning in. “He’s not mad, Dean. I told you, he had to leave, but it wasn’t because of anything you did. He’ll be back.”

Dean had blinked his brow furrowing. “Feels like… it is.”

“You’re not bad,” Sam had said firmly, his voice steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Cas cares about you. I care about you. We’re here because we want to help, okay?”

Dean’s gaze had fallen, his hand twitching weakly against the blanket. “Don’t feel… like that,” he’d murmured. His words had been halting and uneven, like he couldn’t decide whether he believed Sam or not.

Sam had reached out, resting a hand on Dean’s forearm. “We’ll keep talking about it if we need to. I’m not going anywhere, Dean. I promise.”

Dean hadn’t answered, but he’d given a small, slow nod, his focus drifting away.

Sam was starting to see faint glimpses of the old Dean beneath the haze of exhaustion and injury. The doctors had dialled back the painkillers, leaving him more awake and aware, though that awareness came with fresh aches and discomforts. Dean was quiet when he was awake, still hesitant and unsure, but he seemed more determined. He was trying during his therapy sessions, despite the obvious strain it put on him. Eating, however, was another story, Dean picked at his meals, not interested, never finishing much of anything, and Sam was constantly coaxing him to take just a few more bites.

But the glimpses of "Dean" kept him hopeful.

The sound of Dean’s soft grunts filled the room as Melanie guided his arm into slow, deliberate motions with a resistance band. Dean’s arms, trembled slightly with each pull. His face was tight with concentration, and the occasional wince betrayed the lingering ache in his back.

“Okay, Dean, nice and slow,” Melanie said, her tone patient and encouraging as she steadied the band. “Pull it toward your chest. Not too far, just until you feel some resistance.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, his brow furrowing as he focused on the task. His arm shook with the effort, but he managed to pull the band halfway before his strength faltered.

“Hurts,” he muttered, his voice clipped and uneven. The word came out slower than usual, as though he had to fight to find it. His jaw tightened, the effort of speaking visibly frustrating him.

Sam, seated close by, leaned forward. “You’re doing great, though. Just a couple more, and you can take a break.”

Dean shot him a look that clearly read seriously? but didn’t argue. His breathing hitched as Melanie adjusted his arm slightly to ease the strain.

“That’s it, Dean,” she encouraged, her voice steady. “One more pull, then we’ll move to the next exercise.”

Dean gritted his teeth, his muscles visibly trembling as he completed the rep. The effort left him flushed and panting, his back arching slightly against the pillows as he tried to shift away from the persistent ache.

Sam noticed the movement and reached out to steady him. “Easy,” he murmured. “Don’t overdo it.”

Melanie nodded in agreement, setting the resistance band aside and giving Dean a moment to recover. “Good work,” she said, her tone warm. “That was a solid start. Now let’s try some gentle pushing. Same idea, steady pressure, and let me know if it’s too much.”

Dean groaned faintly but let her guide his hand into position. This time, he pressed against her palm, his arm trembling with the effort. The pain in his back flared briefly, pulling a sharp inhale from him, but he didn’t stop.

“Breathe through it,” Melanie instructed, her voice calm. “You’re doing fine. Just a little more.”

Dean’s lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed like he was trying to say something. Instead, he let out a frustrated huff, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“Can’t…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. The single word came out haltingly, and his face flushed with embarrassment.

“You’re doing great,” Sam said quickly, his hand returning to Dean’s shoulder. “It’s okay.

Dean’s tired eyes flicked toward him, and for a moment, Sam thought he saw gratitude there, though it was buried under layers of fatigue and frustration.

Melanie lowered Dean’s arm gently, giving him another break. “Okay, that’s enough for now,” she said softly. “We’re building strength gradually. Pushing too hard will only set you back.”

Dean slumped against the pillows, his chest rising and falling heavily. Sam noticed the way his brother’s face tightened, a sure sign he was hurting.

“Water?” Sam offered, holding out a cup.

Dean hesitated, then took it with his free hand. His fingers clumsy around the plastic, but he managed a few sips before handing it back.

“Not bad, big guy,” Sam said with a faint smile. “Seriously. You’re stronger than you were even yesterday.”

Dean’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk, though his voice was too tired to match the expression. “Tired… all,” he muttered, the incomplete sentence still managing to get his point across.

Melanie chuckled softly. “That’s normal, Dean. We’re asking a lot of your muscles right now, and they’re just waking up. Rest up, we’ll pick this back up tomorrow.”

Dean didn’t reply, his body sagged further into the bed. Sam stayed by his side, his hand still resting lightly on Dean’s arm.

“We’ll get there,” Sam murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Dean turned his head slightly, avoiding Sam’s gaze as if he couldn’t bear to look at him. Sam was getting used to Dean’s grumbling, but there was something in his brother’s eyes that told him this time was different. Dean wasn’t just irritated, he was genuinely struggling. The confusion, the exhaustion, the pain, it was all mixing together into a storm of frustration that was hard for Dean to articulate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Dr. Harris entered the room with his usual calm professionalism, clipboard in hand. Behind him, Melanie followed with a kind but focused expression.

“Afternoon, Dean,” Dr. Harris greeted warmly, stopping at the side of the bed. “We’re going to adjust your position a bit today. It’s important for circulation and to get your body used to being upright again.”

Dean gave a faint grunt in response, not looking particularly thrilled by the prospect.

Melanie offered an encouraging smile as she set her hands lightly on the side of the bed. “It’s a small step, Dean, but you’ll feel the difference over time. We’ll go slow, and if anything feels off, dizziness, pain, or nausea, just let us know, okay?”

Dean gave a barely perceptible nod, his brow furrowed in discomfort.

Dr. Harris glanced at Sam, who was already on his feet. “Sam, I might need your help here. Dean’s upper body strength isn’t quite there yet, so we’ll need to support him to keep him from sliding.”

Sam stepped closer without hesitation, his hands hovering near his brother’s shoulders, ready to assist. “Got it,” he said firmly.

“Alright, Dean,” Melanie said, adjusting the pillows under his knees. “We’re going to raise the bed just a little at first, and we’ll support you as we go. Try to relax.”

Dr. Harris pressed a button on the bed controls, and the incline began to shift. As the mattress angled upward, Dean’s body automatically slid slightly downward, his torso sagging with the lack of core strength. Sam quickly braced him under the shoulders, gently easing him back into position.

“Easy, I’ve got you,” Sam murmured, his voice steady as his hands anchored Dean in place.

Dean’s breath hitched, and his fingers twitched against the bed, curling instinctively into the sheets. His face grew paler, the effort clearly taking a toll.

“How’s that?” Dr. Harris asked, pausing the adjustment to check Dean’s expression.

Dean’s lips parted, but his response was delayed, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “Dizzy,” he rasped finally, his voice thin and strained.

“That’s normal,” Dr. Harris assured him, pulling out a blood pressure cuff. He wrapped it around Dean’s arm and pumped it with practised efficiency. 

Dean’s head lolled slightly to the side, his unfocused eyes drifting toward Sam. A faint sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his breathing came in shallow pants.

“You’re doing fine,” Melanie said softly, keeping her tone reassuring. “Just a little longer, okay?”

Sam’s grip on Dean’s shoulders tightened slightly as he felt his brother’s body tremble under the strain. “It’s okay, Dean. Just breathe through it,” Sam said, his voice low but steady.

Dr. Harris checked the readings and frowned slightly. “His blood pressure dropped. Let’s hold here for a moment before going any further.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his jaw clenching. “Fine... just... dizzy,” he mumbled, the effort of speaking making his voice trail off.

Melanie exchanged a quick look with Dr Harris. “Let’s not push too hard today. Dean, we’re going to lower the bed back to where it was, okay? We’ll try again later.”

Dr. Harris nodded at Sam. “Keep him steady as I adjust it back.”

Sam carefully shifted his hold as the bed lowered. Dean sagged back against the pillows, his body going limp with relief as the strain eased. His breathing was still shallow, and another soft cough escaped him.

Melanie adjusted the pillows again, ensuring Dean’s neck and shoulders were supported. “You did well,” she said gently, smoothing the blanket over him.

Sam leaned down so he was at eye level with his brother. “You good, Dean?” he asked, though the answer was obvious in Dean’s pale, sweat-dampened face.

Dean’s eyes cracked open, heavy with exhaustion, and he muttered, “Yeah... fine. Just... tired.” His gaze lingered on Sam for a moment longer, a flicker of something in his expression, uncertainty, maybe even a question, but he didn’t say anything else before his eyes slid shut again.

Sam stayed close, watching his brother carefully as his breathing began to even out. Dr. Harris made a note on his clipboard, his tone calm as he said, “We’ll take it slow. He’s making progress, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”

Sam nodded silently, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. He’d take slow progress over none, but the unspoken question lingering in Dean’s gaze made his chest tighten with worry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning light seeped through the thin curtains of Sam’s motel room, pale and muted against the grey skies outside. He had barely slept, tossing and turning as Dean’s pale, sweat-slicked face kept replaying in his mind.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to shake off the exhaustion. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and for a moment, his heart clenched. But when he saw the name on the screen, relief pushed through his tension.

“Cas,” Sam greeted as he picked up the call, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Sam,” Castiel’s familiar gravelly voice replied. “How is Dean? Has there been any change?”

Sam exhaled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “He’s... hanging in there,” he said, his voice soft. “Getting stronger, I think. He can move his arms a lot more now, but... it’s slow. And hard. He’s in pain, Cas.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Castiel’s quiet, pained response. “I wish I could be there. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m still tracking leads on Metatron. He’s... elusive.”

“I get it,” Sam said quickly, trying to tamp down the bitterness threatening to creep into his voice. He wasn’t angry at Cas; he knew the angel was doing everything he could. But that didn’t make it any easier to face this alone. “I’m glad you’re getting closer. Dean... Dean could use you.”

“I want to be there,” Castiel said firmly. “I... need to be there. But finding my grace is the only way I can help him. He deserves more than what I can offer now.”

Sam let the silence stretch between them for a moment before finally speaking. “He keeps asking about you, Cas.”

The words came out quietly, but they hit with weight. “He thinks you’re not there because... because you’re mad at him. Because he’s bad.” Sam’s voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat to push through it. “I keep telling him that’s not true, but... I don’t know if he really believes me. He’s... Cas, he’s not himself. He’s… God, he’s so vulnerable right now.”

Castiel’s breath hitched audibly over the line. “Bad?” he echoed, his voice laced with disbelief and sorrow.

Sam nodded, even though Castiel couldn’t see him. “Yeah. It’s like he’s fixated on it. He keeps asking me if I’m mad at him, like he doesn’t believe me when I say I’m not. And you... he thinks you’re gone because of him. Because he did something to push you away.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel said immediately, his voice sharp with emotion. “I would never…”

“I know,” Sam cut in quickly, sighing. “I know, Cas. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t remember when I tell him, he doesn’t even remember why he is there. And even if he did, I’m not sure he’d believe it right now.” He paused, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. “He seems so... young, Cas. Like all those layers he built up over the years are gone. He’s not Dean right now. And I don’t know if he’ll ever come back.”

Castiel’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke again. “He will. Dean is... resilient. He has always come back.”

Sam let out a humourless laugh. “I don’t know, Cas. He doesn’t even remember Kevin.” The words were heavy, weighed down by guilt and relief. “And honestly? I’m glad. I don’t think he could handle that on top of everything else. But it just... it feels wrong. I need to tell him how sorry I am, how much I... understand now. How much I appreciate him for everything he’s done. But what if he doesn’t come back enough to hear it? What if he’s stuck like this, and I never get to…”

“Sam.” Castiel’s voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, firm but gentle. “You will have the chance to tell him. I believe that. And Dean... he knows, even if he can’t fully comprehend it right now. He knows you love him.”

Sam swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I hope you’re right,” he murmured.

There was a long pause before Castiel spoke again, his tone softer now. “I’ll keep searching for Metatron. I’ll find my grace, and when I do, I’ll come to him. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Sam nodded, his grip tightening on the phone. “Thanks, Cas. Really.”

“You’re not alone in this, Sam,” Castiel said quietly. “Even if it feels that way.”

The words settled into the silence like a lifeline, Sam felt a small measure of comfort. “I’ll call you later with an update,” he said, his voice steadier now.

“I’ll be waiting,” Castiel replied.

After the call ended, Sam sat there for a moment longer. With a deep sigh, he stood, grabbing his jacket and keys. It was time to head back to the hospital, to Dean. Whatever the day would bring, he’d face it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Sam stepped into Dean’s hospital room that morning, the first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. Dean lay on the bed, his face turned slightly toward the window.

Sam’s chest tightened as he took in his brother’s pale complexion. Dean had looked pale and worn since the injury, but today something was different.

“Morning, Dean,” Sam said softly, moving closer. His brother didn’t stir, Sam placed a hand gently on Dean’s arm. “Hey,” he said again, a little louder this time. Dean shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as though the sound tugged at the edges of his awareness, but his eyes stayed closed.

Sam pulled up a chair, settling in beside the bed. He reached for the book he’d brought, debating whether to read aloud, when the door opened and Melanie stepped in, clipboard in hand.

“Good morning,” she greeted, her voice bright but calm.

Sam glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Morning. He’s pretty out of it.”

Melanie moved to the bed, giving Dean a quick once-over before setting her clipboard aside. “Let’s see how he’s doing,” she said, her tone soft but businesslike. She touched Dean’s shoulder lightly. “Dean? Time to wake up a little.”

Dean groaned faintly, his face scrunching in mild protest. His eyes fluttered open, the green dulled with exhaustion as he squinted against the light.

“Hey there,” Melanie said warmly. “Rough morning?”

Dean blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused as he seemed to process her words. “Tired,” he muttered after a moment, his voice rasping faintly.

“I can see that,” Melanie replied with a small smile. “Let’s try to loosen you up a bit. Nothing too hard today, okay?”

Dean exhaled heavily, his expression making it clear that even nothing too hard felt like a monumental effort.

Sam leaned closer, resting a hand on the bed rail. “You good with that, Dean? Just a little stretching.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to Sam, his fatigue evident, but he nodded faintly. “Yeah,” he said, though the word was soft and hesitant.

Melanie began her routine, guiding Dean’s arm into a gentle stretch. His movements were sluggish, and his muscles didn’t resist so much as sag under her touch. “I know it feels tougher today,” she said encouragingly, “but that’s ok. You’re doing fine.”

Dean winced as she adjusted his shoulder, his jaw tightening briefly. “Hurts,” he mumbled, the single word barely audible.

“I know,” Melanie soothed, keeping her tone calm. “Just a little more, and we’ll be done for now.”

Sam watched Dean carefully, his worry mounting as he noticed the sheen of sweat gathering on his brother’s forehead despite the minimal effort. “You seem… off today,” Sam murmured.

Melanie paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied Dean. “A little more tired than usual, huh?”

Dean let out a low hum, more of an acknowledgment than a word. His head tipped back against the pillow, his face drawn with fatigue.

“We’ll keep it light,” Melanie said after a moment, easing his arm back down. “No resistance today just stretches and mobility work. If you're still this tired later, we’ll loop in your doctor to check you over.”

Dean let his eyes slip shut again, his breathing steady but noticeably laboured.

Sam nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “He hasn’t been this out of it for a while. You think it’s anything to worry about?”

Melanie offered a reassuring smile, though her gaze lingered on Dean. “It could just be a low-energy day. He’s still recovering, and every step takes a toll. We’ll monitor him and see how he does this afternoon.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he stayed quiet as Melanie continued her work, gently moving Dean’s arms and legs. By the time she was done, Dean was asleep.

“Rest up, Dean,” Melanie said as she gathered her things. “We’ll try again later when you’ve got a little more in the tank.”

Sam nodded, though the worry in his chest didn’t abate as she finished up and left.

A short while later, the nurse came in to check on Dean. “He seems a little more out of it than usual,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Did he have a bad night or something?”

The nurse shook her head. “I’m not sure; I just came on shift. Let me take his vitals, and I’ll check with the night staff for you.” She moved around the room efficiently, taking Dean’s blood pressure manually and recording his temperature.

Sam watched as she jotted down notes. “Anything off?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied, glancing up. “His temp’s a bit higher than normal, nothing alarming, just something to keep an eye on. I’ll follow up with the doctor about it.”

Sam nodded, his gaze returning to Dean’s slack face.

The nurse left, promising to look into the night shift report, and for a while, Sam just sat beside Dean, watching the faint flicker of his eyelids and the slow, steady movement of his chest. After about an hour, Sam reached out again, resting his hand lightly on Dean’s arm.

“Hey, Dean,” he murmured. “C’mon, man, wake up.”

It took a few more tries, but eventually, Dean’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. His lips moved faintly, but no sound came out at first.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, leaning closer. “There you are.”

Dean blinked sluggishly, his gaze finding Sam’s face.

“Cas called this morning,” Sam told him, his voice gentle. “He wanted to check on you. Said he’s getting closer to finding Metatron. I told him you’re still fighting.”

Dean’s lips twitched, just enough to form the ghost of a smile. It was faint, fleeting, but it was there.

Sam’s brow furrowed at how quickly Dean’s eyes drifted shut again. Normally, talking about Cas got a stronger reaction. But now, it was like Dean didn’t have the energy to care.

He’s just tired, Sam told himself, though the reassurance felt thin.

A while later, Dr. Harris entered, clipboard in hand, his expression calm and professional.
“How’s he doing this morning?” he asked, approaching the bed.

Sam stood, gesturing toward Dean. “He’s... quiet. A lot quieter than usual. Barely woke up when I got here, and he’s been out most of the morning.”

Dr. Harris moved to the bedside, pressing his fingers to Dean’s wrist to take his pulse before wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm. Sam watched closely, trying to read the doctor’s expression as he worked.

“His blood pressure’s a little low,” Dr. Harris said after a moment. “His pulse is steady. You said he’s been more groggy?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, his arms crossed. “And pale. He just seems... off.”

Dr. Harris nodded, setting the cuff aside before pulling a thermometer from his pocket. He took Dean’s temperature, frowning slightly as he checked the reading.

“His temp’s been trending upward since last night,” he said, jotting something down on his clipboard. “Nothing too concerning at this point, but not a trend we want to see. I’ll order some blood tests and more regular temperature checks to be safe.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Is it... something to worry about?”

“It’s too soon to say,” Dr. Harris replied, his voice calm and measured. “It could be a normal fluctuation, or it could be the start of something. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

Sam nodded, though his worry remained as Dr. Harris adjusted Dean’s bed to incline him slightly more upright.

“All right, Dean,” Dr. Harris said, his tone gentle but firm. “We’re going to sit you up again. It might make you feel dizzy or lightheaded, let us know if it’s too much.”

Dean didn’t respond, but his brow furrowed faintly as the bed shifted. Sam immediately stepped closer, watching as his brother’s face twisted in discomfort.

“Sam, help support him,” Dr. Harris instructed.

Without hesitation, Sam moved to Dean’s side. “I’ve got you, Dean,” he murmured, steadying his brother’s sagging upper body.

Dean’s breathing grew shallow, and his face turned an even paler shade, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. His body trembled slightly under Sam’s hold.

“You okay, Dean?” Dr. Harris asked, his tone professional but attentive.

Dean’s lips parted, but all he managed was a faint cough.

Sam frowned, his grip tightening slightly. “He’s really pale.”

“It’s the blood pressure adjustment,” Dr. Harris explained. “His body needs time to acclimate to being more upright. We’ll lower him back down in a moment.”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

“All right,” Dr. Harris said after a few minutes, easing the bed back down. “That’s enough for now.”

Sam gently lowered Dean back against the pillows as the bed flattened. His brother sagged into the mattress, his body going limp with relief. Dean’s breathing remained shallow, and his eyes slid shut again almost immediately.

“Let him rest,” Dr. Harris advised, making notes on his clipboard. “We’ll run the tests and monitor him closely. Hopefully, this is just a blip.”

Sam nodded, but his gaze lingered on Dean’s pale face. He hoped the doctor was right.

Chapter Text

Sam sat back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face as the door swung open quietly. A nurse Sam, didn’t recognise stepped inside, carrying a food tray. She offered a small, polite smile before setting the tray down on the rolling table beside Dean’s bed.

“Lunch,” she said softly. “Page us if you need anything.”

Sam nodded, watching as she slipped back out, the door easing shut with a soft click.

Dean shifted slightly in the bed, a faint frown tugging at his brow.

Sam straightened automatically, his gaze trained on him. He hadn’t really noticed that this morning, the little crease between Dean’s eyebrows, the restless tension across his features. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe just uncomfortable.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Sam’s eyes drifted down, taking in the rest of him. Dean lay flat against the pillows, the back brace stiff and unforgiving against his frame, the IV line and feeding tube the only clutter around him.

He was still too thin. Even with the feeding tube, even with the slight improvement over the last few weeks, he looked... wrong. 

Dean was supposed to be all restless energy and solid lines, cracking jokes with a mouthful of burger, eating like he had a black hole for a stomach. Sam used to ride him for it constantly, teasing him about how he could out-eat a linebacker without even trying. It was a part of him, like the smirk or the battered leather jacket or the way he could take down a monster twice his size without flinching.

Now... Sam would have given anything to hear Dean bitch about being hungry again. To see his disgusting eating habits.

To see him want something.
To see that spark again.

He glanced at the lunch tray — bland chicken soup, mashed potatoes, a small cup of applesauce. Nothing that looked particularly appealing, but enough for a few bites.

Sam was sure Dean didn’t eat breakfast. The full tray on top of the empty ones outside his room looked remarkably like the food Dean usually gets. And judging by how hard it was just to get Dean to tolerate food lately, if Sam wasn’t there pushing, Dean would avoid it.

Still, he had to keep trying. Dean needed to rebuild his strength, needed to put some weight on.

Sam hesitated a moment longer, then reached out and brushed his hand lightly against Dean’s arm.

“Dean,” he said quietly. “Hey. Wake up, man. Lunch is here.”

Dean stirred slowly, his head rolling slightly against the pillow, his eyes cracking open. They were glassy, unfocused, and his face was pale against the stark white sheets. He blinked a few times, sluggish, clearly struggling to pull himself into full awareness.

Sam kept his voice low, careful. “It’s just me. You’re okay.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just lay there, breathing shallowly, his brow still drawn in that faint frown.

Sam gave him a minute, usually, once he was awake, it only took a little coaxing to get him to try a few bites.

“Hey,” Sam said, keeping his voice low. He slid the tray closer, uncovering it so the faint smell of food drifted up. “Got some lunch here. Figured you might wanna try a little?”

Dean’s eyelids drooped further, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No,” he mumbled, rough and low, before letting his eyes fall closed.

Sam immediately leaned forward, a flicker of concern tightening his chest.

“Dean, eyes open, man. Come on.” He nudged his arm gently. “You need to eat something.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open again, dull, glassy, focusing sluggishly on Sam.

“No,” he repeated, firmer this time, before squeezing his eyes shut once more.

Sam frowned deeply, studying him, pale, brows pinched tight in discomfort. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t just being tired.

“Dean, come on,” Sam urged, voice soft but persistent. “Wake up. What’s going on? You’re not just tired.”

Dean grimaced faintly, as if even thinking about answering hurt, but finally rasped out, “Head... hurts. Bad.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. Right. Of course. The way Dean was moving, or not moving, made sense now.

“Like a migraine again?” Sam asked carefully.

Dean gave the smallest nod.

Sam blew out a slow breath, glancing toward the uncovered window where the afternoon sun still spilled harshly into the room. No wonder Dean was miserable.

"You want me to close the blinds?" Sam offered, keeping his voice low.

Dean gave a short, desperate nod.

Sam was already moving, crossing the room in a few quick strides to pull the curtains shut. The harsh afternoon glare dimmed into a soft gray, the weight of it lifting from the room almost instantly.

When he turned back, a dry cough rattled from Dean’s chest — sharp, shallow — and even that small effort seemed to hurt.

Dean let out a low groan, face twisting in pain as he tried instinctively to curl in on himself. But the back brace wouldn’t let him, holding him stiff and flat against the bed, legs unmoving beneath the thin blanket. The helplessness of it weighed heavily on Sam.

Sam moved back to the chair, lowering his voice even more. “Want me to call the nurse? Get you something for it?”

Dean shook his head immediately, eyes still closed.

“No,” he said again, more strained now.

Sam hesitated, Dean needed pain relief, but pushing him right now wasn’t going to help.

Sam sat back, watching him, chewing the inside of his cheek. Why didn’t he say something before, Sam could have closed the blinds hours ago.

But... he’d let him rest.
For now.

The door eased open, and one of the nurses, Amanda, stepped in, a tray balanced on her hip. She gave Sam a small, familiar smile before moving toward the bed.

Dean cracked his eyes open, just enough to follow her with a dull, wary look.

“Hey, Dean,” she said gently, keeping her voice low. “Just me. Gonna check your vitals and take some blood real quick, alright?”

Dean blinked slowly and let his eyes slide closed again, a slight furrow pulling between his brows. He didn’t move otherwise.

Sam straightened a little in his chair. “He’s got a migraine,” he offered, quiet but firm. “Said it’s bad.”

Amanda glanced at him as she set the tray down, her expression softening. “I’ll make sure Dr. Harris knows,” she promised, already sliding a pulse ox monitor onto Dean’s finger and wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

Dean shifted slightly as the cuff inflated, an almost imperceptible wince, but kept his eyes shut.

The readings popped up on the screen: blood pressure a little low, heart rate steady, oxygen fine. Amanda moved efficiently, pausing only to check the IV site and the feeding tube connection before taking out a small digital thermometer.

She slipped it into Dean’s ear and waited for the beep.

Sam watched her face as she read the number, catching the faint downturn of her mouth.

“Still a little up,” she murmured, making a note on her clipboard. “It’s been trending that way since yesterday.”

Sam nodded grimly.

Amanda prepped the blood draw next, murmuring another quiet warning to Dean before sliding the needle in. Dean grimaced slightly but didn’t open his eyes, just breathing through it, hands staying loose at his sides.

“All done,” she said after a moment, covering the spot with gauze and tape. She reached out briefly, a warm touch to the blanket over his arm. “You’re doing good.”

At that, Dean cracked one eye open, just barely, and squinted up at her. It wasn’t much of a look, but it was there.

Amanda smiled at him, gentle and steady. “I’ll let the doc know about the headache. Try to get you something for it.”

Dean’s gaze shifted, darting briefly toward Sam, and Sam didn’t miss the flicker of irritation that crossed his face.

Amanda gathered her tray, moving quietly toward the door. Dean watched her go with heavy-lidded eyes, and when the door clicked softly closed behind her, he let out a slow, faint breath and shut his eyes again.

The door opened minutes later with a quiet knock. Dr. Harris stepped inside, giving Sam a quick nod of greeting before coming to stand at Dean’s bedside.

“Afternoon, Dean,” he said calmly. “Heard you’re not feeling so hot.”

Dean stirred slightly at the voice, his eyes slitting open.

“Let’s do a quick check, alright?”

Harris pulled a small penlight from his pocket and gently tilted Dean’s chin up. Dean flinched at the light, a low, miserable groan slipping out.

“Sorry, I know it’s rough,” Harris murmured. He moved the light side to side, watching Dean’s pupils carefully. “They’re reacting, that’s good.”

He clicked the light off and slipped it back into his coat. Dean’s head sank heavier into the pillow, clearly exhausted from even that small effort.

“Dean, can you tell me where you are?”

“’S... hospital,” Dean muttered thickly, the words slurring together.

“That’s right.” Harris gave a small smile. “And who’s that with you?”

Dean’s gaze drifted lazily toward Sam.

“Sam.”

Sam gave him a small, reassuring smile.

“Good,” Harris said, nodding too. “Alright. How long have you had a headache?”

Dean grimaced faintly, struggling to focus. “Dunno,” he mumbled, sounding frustrated.

“You didn’t mention anything this morning,” Harris said, keeping his tone light.

Dean blinked slowly. “Worse now,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Okay.” Harris crouched slightly to stay at Dean’s eye level. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad’s the pain?”

Dean’s fingers twitched weakly against the blanket. “Six,” he slurred.

Harris gave a brief, knowing smile. “Hmm. I’m guessing it’s more like an eight or nine, but we’ll go with your answer.”

Dean didn’t argue, just shut his eyes briefly against the light of the room.

“Where’s it hurt the most?” Harris asked, still patient.

Dean mumbled, “All over… eyes”

“Feeling nauseous too?”

Dean gave a slow, reluctant nod.

Harris turned slightly to Sam. “Sam, any seizure-like symptoms? Staring spells, zoning out, anything strange?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Good. Keep an eye out, though,” Harris said. “Anything like that, even little twitches or confusion, page us straight away.”

He looked back to Dean, voice a little firmer. “Dean, you have to tell us if anything changes, okay? More pain, nausea, vision changes, anything. You can’t wait until it gets this bad. You’re doing great, you're getting better, but you’ve gotta work with us.”

Dean cracked his eyes open again and gave a small, obedient nod.

Sam watched the exchange quietly, realising with a pang that Dean had probably been struggling all day without saying a word.

“I’m thinking it’s a migraine,” Harris said after a moment. “Your bloodwork should tell us a little more. If it doesn’t settle, or if anything gets worse, we’ll get another CT scan to be sure.”

Dean just nodded again, slow and tired.

“For now, we’ll give you some stronger pain relief,” Harris continued. “It’ll probably make you drowsy again, but that’s alright. Sleep it off. I’ll check on you again tomorrow.”

He turned to Sam then, his expression serious but steady.

“Dr. Connors is on shift now.” He said quietly. “I’ll fill him in on everything before I leave. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, page immediately. The last set of CTs looked good, so I’m confident this is a migraine, but with the slight temp increase, we need to stay vigilant.”

Sam nodded, feeling the weight settle between his ribs.

“Thanks, Dr. Harris.”

The doctor clapped him lightly on the shoulder before leaving the room, already speaking quietly to the nurse in the hallway.

Sam turned back toward the bed, watching Dean drift again into restless half-sleep, the lines of pain etched deep across his pale face.

The room was dim, the pale evening light spilling through the half-closed blinds, stretching long lines across the floor. Sam sat slouched in the chair by Dean's bed, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded tight across his chest. He could hear faint footsteps in the hall, a low murmur from the nurses' station, but in here it was just the soft, steady sound of Dean breathing.

Dean had slept most of the afternoon away, only stirring when the nurses came in to check on him every few hours. Even then, it had only been a vague mumble, a flicker of his eyelashes before he settled back under. His temperature was still a little high, but it hadn’t gotten worse.

Sam had spent nearly five weeks living like this. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.

A soft whimper pulled Sam’s attention back. Dean twitched, face scrunching in distress, his breathing speeding up. Another nightmare.

Sam was already on his feet, leaning over the bed.

"Hey, hey, Dean" he said quietly, hand brushing Dean's shoulder. "You're okay, man. You're safe."

Dean jerked awake with a gasp, blinking wildly up at the ceiling. His chest heaved, fingers clenching into the thin blanket. Sam kept his touch light, grounding, waiting until Dean’s breathing slowed a little.

"It's okay," Sam said again, softer. "You're okay."

Dean lay still for a minute, staring up, not moving, just breathing. Sam waited, giving him space. After a few moments, Dean turned his head slightly, his eyes finding Sam's face in the dim light.

Sam smiled a little, relieved to see him awake, present. "Hey."

Dean looked at him for a long moment. Assessing. And then, voice rough and still a little slurred, he rasped, "You should... go."

Sam blinked, thrown. "What?"

Dean shifted slightly, wincing, but kept his eyes on Sam. "I'm... stuck here." He struggled with the words, frustrated, the broken cadence making it hit even harder. "Nothin'.... You... go live."

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Sam opened his mouth, closed it again, trying to process.

But Dean wasn’t pushing him away because he didn’t want him there. He thought he was doing Sam a favour. Saving him. Again.

Sam shook his head, stepping closer. "No. No, Dean, I'm not leaving you. You're getting better. You're fighting, man. I'm staying."

Dean frowned slightly, like he couldn't quite make the pieces fit. His mouth opened, then closed again, a dry cough pulling a painful sound from him. His fingers twitched faintly against the blanket, searching for something that wasn’t there.

Sam leaned in, voice tight. "Dean. If it was me lying here, if I was the one hurt, would you leave me?"

Dean’s eyes widened slightly, startled. He stared up at Sam for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head.

"Never," he rasped.

Sam swallowed, chest tight. "Exactly. So, I’m not leaving you either."

Dean's forehead creased deeper. He turned his head away, voice rough and stubborn.

"It’s different," he muttered.

Sam stiffened, frustration bubbling inside him.

"No, it’s not," he said, sharper now.

Dean shifted slightly, wincing as the back brace and injuries fought him. His voice was thin, worn down to nothing.

"You could... live. Be… happy."

Sam blinked at him, stunned.

"Be happy," he repeated, disbelieving. "Be happy? You think I'd just be happy, living my life, knowing you're stuck here? Or...?"

Dean didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.

Sam’s heart pounded harder. His voice roughened.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, stepping closer. "You think I'd be better off without you?"

Still nothing.

Sam threw up his hands, pacing two sharp steps away from the bed. His boots scuffed against the floor, loud in the quiet room, but he barely registered it.

"God, why don't you get this?" Sam said, voice rising without meaning to. He turned back, arms outstretched, pleading and furious all at once. "You don’t just get to make these decisions for me! You don’t get to decide that my life means more than anything else! That you need to sacrifice yourself — or other people — to save me!"

He was moving now, pacing tight circles, too wound up to stay still. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"You don’t get to decide that my life is better without you in it! Like, I should just leave you here."

His hands cut the air sharply.

"Or that you should… make a deal and go to Hell for me.”

He shook his head violently, voice cracking harder.

"Or decide to kill yourself with —!"

The words snapped out, vicious and raw, before he could stop them.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Dean was staring at him, wide-eyed.

Sam didn’t need to look closely to know he’d just crossed a line he couldn't uncross.

Shit.

Sam could see everything — every raw emotion flickering across his brother's face. Confusion. Hurt. Betrayal.

Dean’s head dropped, his shoulders curling in tight.

They’d just told Dean he fell. He didn’t know.

Sam stumbled a step closer, heart hammering painfully. He scrubbed both hands over his face, trying to get a grip.

"Shit," Sam breathed. "Shit, Dean, I didn’t—"

He reached out automatically, hand hovering to grip Dean’s shoulder —

—and Dean flinched, his upper body jerking back sharply, like he expected to be hit.

Sam froze, heart breaking.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched down instead, trying to get into Dean’s eye line without crowding him, hands raised in surrender.

"Dean, look at me," Sam said quietly, voice wrecked. "Please, man. Look at me."

Dean didn’t move. He kept his head turned away, breathing too fast, shallow and uneven. His hand twisted in the blanket, trembling faintly.

Sam swallowed down the guilt choking him.

"I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m sorry," Sam said, softer now, like he could somehow pull Dean back by sheer force of will. "I'm sorry. I just—" His voice cracked. "You scared me. You scared the hell out of me."

He shifted a little closer, trying to bridge the awful distance between them.

"And I’m not going anywhere," Sam said firmly, willing Dean to believe it. "I'm not. I'm staying, Dean."

For a moment, there was no response. Dean stayed rigid, every muscle tense, staring fixedly at the wall.

Sam’s gut twisted. He reached out again, slower this time, hovering just close enough that Dean could feel he was there, but not pushing it.

Dean’s jaw tightened. His hand trembling as he pulled up the blanket slightly. After a long moment, his eyes flicked toward Sam, just for a second, before darting away again.

"You're... angry," Dean muttered, voice cracked and low. "Knew it. You... promised."

The betrayal in his voice was a knife to Sam’s gut.

You lied.

"I'm not angry at you," Sam said, voice rough with the weight of everything unsaid. "I'm not."

But the second the words left his mouth, Sam knew they weren’t true. Not the way he wanted them to be.

He was angry because of the choices Dean kept making.
That Dean always put Sam first.
That Dean always tried to save him, no matter what it cost.
At the way Dean constantly put himself last.
At the fact that Dean almost died.
That Dean put him through this.
That Dean still didn’t even know what he’d done, so Sam couldn’t even ask him why.

Sam dragged in a slow breath, trying to steady himself.

Dean turned his head away, biting his lip hard enough to leave a mark.

"Just... go," he whispered, so quiet Sam almost missed it.

Sam shook his head fiercely. "No, Dean. I'm not leaving."

Dean’s shoulders tensed. "Sam... just..." His voice broke. He closed his eyes and turned further away, shutting Sam out.

Sam swallowed down the guilt choking him.

Sam sat there, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

He hadn’t meant to lose it.
He hadn’t even realised it was all still bottled up until it exploded out of him, sharp and ugly, catching him off guard as much as it caught Dean.

God, the last thing he wanted to do was lose it at Dean.

And yet, he had.
Because no matter what he said, no matter what he told Dean, he was angry.
But he’d told himself he was over it, that it didn’t matter anymore, not after everything they’d been through.
Dean didn’t even remember.

Those first days, those first brutal weeks when Dean had been barely hanging on, when every shallow breath was a battle — Sam had understood. Watching Dean fight to survive had stripped away all the anger, all the betrayal.

He got it now. Why Dean had done what he did. Why he couldn’t just let Sam die without trying. Dean had been misled, and desperate.

Sam had been furious back then, sure. But sitting beside Dean’s hospital bed, praying for him to wake up, to breathe on his own, to even twitch a finger,  the anger had unraveled into understanding.

And now, weeks later, he knew that if Cas couldn’t get his grace back, if Dean didn’t heal, if there was no easy fix. Sam would do anything. Try anything. Whatever it took.

He understood that.

He understood Dean.

But what he couldn’t stand, what still twisted inside him like a knife, was that Dean thought it was different. That’s why he lost it.

That Dean thought Sam should go. That Sam was better off without him.

Is that why he tried to kill himself? Because he thought Sam would be freer? Happier?

But then didn’t he tell Dean he wouldn’t save him? Did Dean remember that?

No wonder Dean thinks it's different. He told him it was.

Sam dragged a hand over his face, his thoughts a mess, colliding and spiralling. Dean was lying there broken and vulnerable, his protective walls stripped away by injury and exhaustion, struggling with memories he couldn’t fully grasp, and Sam had just hurled everything at him. All the wrong things.

Dean, who flinched like Sam was going to hit him.
Dean, who could barely move, who couldn’t fight back, who could only take it.
Dean, who had been trying, in his own broken way, to let Sam go so he wouldn’t be a burden.

And Sam had lost it.

The guilt crushed him, heavy and suffocating.
Dean didn’t need anger.
He didn’t need judgment.
He needed someone who would listen and support him. Encourage him.
Someone who would help him work through his confused memories and thoughts.

And Sam had to be that person, whether Dean believed he deserved it or not.

Chapter Text

Dean didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even try.

After Sam left, the silence in the room got too loud, the corners too sharp. He turned his face toward the wall and stayed that way, hoping if he held still long enough, he might just stop existing for a while.

He hadn’t meant to start a fight.

Didn’t mean to say the wrong thing. He’d been trying to help, trying to do the only thing he could do, get Sam to go. Make it easier for him. Get him to leave. What good was he, stuck like this? Sam didn’t owe him this. Didn’t need to sit around watching Dean waste what was left of his body and whatever brain function hadn’t short-circuited. It wasn’t fair. Sam had a life to live.

So, he’d said what he could.

That Sam should go.

Then came the yelling. And that hurt, angry, wild look in Sam’s eyes, the kind Dean hadn't seen in years. Since… since he said Sam was a monster.

But it had been about more than just tonight. It had to be.

But Sam said he wasn’t angry.

Promised it.

And Dean. God, he believed him. Because Sam wouldn’t lie like that. He promised.

So, then what? Why did it feel like anger? Why did every word, every breath out of Sam’s mouth feel like… more?

Dean’s thoughts looped again and again.

If Sam said he wasn’t mad, then Dean must’ve got it wrong. Felt it wrong. His gut lied to him all the time now anyway. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was here, couldn’t remember the accident, didn’t even know where here was.

Maybe he was wrong about Cas too.

Or was Sam wrong? Maybe Cas didn’t tell Sam and Sam didn’t know. Maybe that’s why Cas hadn’t come back. Sam said Cas had to go, but really? Maybe Dean had said something, or done something, or just been such a waste of space Cas finally got the message and bailed.

Sam had stuck around longer, but he was his brother, would feel obligated. Now that looked shaky.

Dean stared blankly at the wall, his cheek mashed against the pillow, jaw clenched hard.

What if he wasn’t getting better?

Everyone said it, the therapists, the nurses, Sam, like improvement was inevitable. Like he just had to try harder, rest more, believe in the process. But what if it wasn’t happening? What if this was it? A stammering shell in a hospital bed, memory full of holes, muscles wasting.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk right. He couldn’t focus.

But he could spiral.

And the one thing he was sure of, the one damn thing, was that Sam was angry now. And it was his fault.

Dean’s fingers twitched at his side. He hated how heavy they felt, how useless.

It was probably better if Sam left for good.

Just like Cas.

A little before three, the door eased open.

Dean didn’t move, didn’t look. Just listened to soft-soled shoes and a clipboard shuffle. One of the overnight nurses, Carly, maybe. She moved quiet, efficient, barely a sound as she stepped to his bedside.

“Hey, Dean,” she murmured, voice hushed. “Sorry to bug you. Just need your vitals.”

She took his temp. He let her. No reaction when the thermometer beeped softly.

“Hm. Up a bit,” she said. “We’ll keep an eye on it.”

He didn’t answer.

She finished quickly, adjusted the IV slightly, and jotted something down. “If you need anything, just buzz, okay?”

Dean blinked. Nothing more.

And then she was gone again.

He must’ve drifted after that. Not asleep, not awake, somewhere in between, where his body was heavy and his thoughts ran dark but slow.

When the next nurse came in, the sky outside the window was just starting to pale.

“Mornin’, handsome,” Milly said softly, knocking twice on the doorframe before coming in with a clipboard and the faint scent of mint gum. “You’re awake. Carly said you were when she came through earlier, too.”

Dean blinked sluggishly and shifted his eyes toward her.

“Still not sleeping well, huh?” Milly made a sympathetic sound and moved closer to his bedside. “That brain of yours keeping you up again?”

He didn’t answer.

Milly smiled gently as she checked the tubing and glanced at the IV line.

“You want me to help clean you up now?” she offered. “Get you sorted before your brother gets in. Still want to do that?”

Dean gave a slight nod.

“Okay,” she said, brisk but kind. “Let’s get you sorted then.”

She moved around the bed, practised and calm, with quiet efficiency. She pulled on gloves, untaped the edges of the incontinence pads, and began the slow process of cleaning him up. Dean turned his face toward the window, jaw tight, breath coming a little faster, enough that Milly noticed.

“Breathing’s a little rough today,” she said casually, not pausing in her movements.

Dean shrugged, small and stiff.

“Mmm,” Milly murmured. She didn’t push. Just carried on with her work, voice low and easy. “Well, let’s get you feeling fresh, at least.”

She emptied the urine bag, then changed the stool bag with the same gentle precision. No comments, no apologies. Just care and quiet dignity. She wiped his chest and arms with warm cloths, murmured soft reassurances, and then gently rubbed in a bit of moisturiser, something faintly citrusy that didn’t cling too strong to the air. Dean’s eyes slipped shut.

“You seem a bit down this morning,” she said gently, after a while. “You okay?”

He shrugged again.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” she said, not unkindly.

She didn’t press. Just smoothed the blanket over his legs and gave his shoulder a light pat. “How about I grab your breakfast?”

When she returned, it was with a tray, eggs, toast, and some sad-looking oatmeal. She set it down and pulled a chair over.

“I’m on break,” she said simply. “Mind if I hang out?”

Dean blinked at her.

“Don’t look so surprised. I like the quiet ones.”

She picked up the fork and loaded it with some scrambled eggs.

“Here,” she said. “Try this for me.”

He didn’t want to. Wasn’t hungry. But she looked at him like it mattered to her, and maybe it did, so he grabbed the fork and took the bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“Attaboy.”

She kept talking, about her kid, about the nurse who spilled coffee in the elevator, about the weird smell in the hallway no one could figure out.

Dean didn’t listen closely.

But he ate a few more bites.

And Milly smiled like he’d done something amazing. At least he made her smile.

Dean heard the door creak.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept his eyes low, half-focused on the pattern of light on the blanket. The morning sun. Too bright. It made his head ache.

The quiet steps paused just inside the room.

Sam.

Dean didn’t need to see him to know it. Didn’t need the scuff of boots or the faint hitch in breath. He just knew.

He let his eyes drag up anyway, slow and tired. Sam was standing there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in. Dean felt it in his chest, tight and thick. Not the fever. Not just that.

"Hey," Sam said, voice a little rough. "How’re you feeling?"

Dean blinked at him. Swallowed.

“Okay,” he rasped. It came out smaller than he meant. He waited a beat, then added, “Temp’s up… a little.”

Sam moved closer, slow. Set down a coffee on the table and pulled up the chair.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said suddenly, voice low. Heavy.

Dean’s fingers twitched.

He didn’t look at Sam. Just gave the smallest shrug he could manage.

“It’s okay,” he muttered, not sure if it was even true. “Doesn’t… matter.”

But Sam was shaking his head already. “It does,” he said. “It really does, Dean.”

Dean let out a breath, shaky without meaning to be. His lungs didn’t want to work right today. He was trying not to show it; the extra effort it took just to keep the air coming smooth.

Sam was watching him. Dean knew he saw it. Knew the look on Sam’s face, the one that was part guilt, part worry, part something Dean couldn’t name.

“You were right,” Sam said after a second. “Last night. You were right to call me out.”

Dean’s eyes flicked up. His brow furrowed, confused.

He didn’t feel right. Couldn’t tell if this was a trick or not. Couldn’t tell what Sam really meant.

“I wasn’t trying to lie to you,” Sam said. “But... I was lying to myself. Pretending I wasn’t angry anymore. Pretending like everything was fine because you needed it to be.”

Dean didn’t move.

But his hand curled in the blanket.

“You could feel it,” Sam said. “You asked. And I should have told you the truth.”

Dean’s chest pulled tight again. He tried not to show it. Tried not to let the room tilt a little to the left.

He looked away.

Sam’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t trust yourself... or me.”

Dean stared at the window. The sun glared off the glass.

It hurt. Not just the light, everything.

When he finally looked back, Sam was watching him with that face Dean hated, that open, aching one that made it hard to pretend any of this was nothing.

“You’re… angry,” Dean said, barely a whisper. “I know but… I don’t…”

He couldn’t finish.

Didn’t know how.

Didn’t know what part to explain, the guilt, the shame, the fear.

Sam leaned forward, catching his hand carefully.

Dean didn’t pull away.

“I know,” Sam said. “I wasn’t trying to lie to you or keep anything from you, Dean. I was angry. Before. You hurt me.” He paused. “But that was months ago.”

Dean looked down, ashamed.

“I didn’t understand everything back then,” Sam went on. “Not what you were carrying. I figured it out, Dean. Weeks ago. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Dean’s breathing stayed off-kilter. He didn’t have the strength to hide it anymore.

“I got scared last night,” Sam said. “That’s why I snapped. I didn’t mean to be angry. I just... I don’t want you pushing me away.”

Dean shut his eyes, just for a second.

He wanted to believe that.

“I don’t ever want you thinking you’re not important to me,” Sam added.

Dean looked at him. Really looked. Tried to get his eyes to focus. Tried to find the lie in his face, the catch in his tone.

But all he saw was Sam.

Tired. Raw. Honest.

Dean still wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Sam smiled, barely there, but real.

“So yeah,” he said. “You were right that I was angry before. But I’m not angry about that anymore. Can you try to trust that?”

Dean watched him for a long moment.

The words didn’t come easy.

But he gave a slow, tiny nod.

The corner of his mouth pulled up, just a little. Trying to find normal.

“Bitch,” he rasped.

Sam let out a short, surprised laugh, his shoulders dropping like something inside had finally let go.

“Jerk,” he said back, voice catching.

Something was wrong.
Too quiet.

Dean didn’t know where he was, only that he needed to move. His body was sluggish, numb, like he was in wet concrete. The air around him felt thick and panic was clawing its way up his throat.

Where was Sam?

His mind scrambled for an anchor. For clarity. But all he could feel was the ache in his gut and the weight of something terrible pressing down on him.

He’d done something. He knew it.
Something bad.

The cold was sharp and sudden, twisting in his chest, in his hands. Blood. Was there blood?
No.
A flash.
Sam, on the ground?
Dean blinked hard, but the image didn’t go.

Sam wasn’t moving.

Dean’s heart pounded harder, breath catching like it had to climb out of his ribs.

He’d said something. No, he’d yelled.
He remembered shouting. The sound of his own voice. A knife? Blood? No, no, no. It was all blurred, fragmented.

Where was Sam?

He twisted, tried to get up, but his limbs stayed dead weight, and the dread kept rising. If he could just move, if he could just see…
God, what did he do?

“Dean.”

Pressure on his arm. Warm. Steady.

“Dean?”

The nightmare cracked. His brain staggered sideways, reaching for the voice.

“Hey. You’re okay.”
Sam again. Closer this time. Softer. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open.

Too bright. Too sharp.

The ceiling above him drifted into focus, clean and pale. The figure beside him blurred at the edges, but the voice stayed solid. Sam.

His chest ached.

He’d hurt Sam. Hadn’t he?
Done something unforgivable.

But Sam was here. Hand on his arm. Did Cas, did Cas heal him?

“You’re okay,” Sam said again, gentler now.

Dean stared at the ceiling, breath uneven. His throat worked around a cough he didn’t feel coming.

Sam sat back down, just kept his hand there.

Sam hadn’t moved much since they talked.

Dean should’ve felt better.

And he did, kind of.

But still.

If Sam had been angry and never said it... what else hadn’t he said?

Was Cas mad?

What about the car, was it a car crash? Was it his fault. Was that what he couldn’t remember. Was Baby okay?

He looked at Sam again. Wanted to ask.

But Sam looked like hell. Tired. Worn through. And if he’d already asked, if he’d forgotten again, Sam would know.

So Dean looked back up at the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t expect anything. Didn’t judge.

His chest felt tight again. Not sharp. Just compressed. Like someone was sitting on him, just heavy enough to make breathing feel like a task.

The door opened with a soft knock.

Dean turned his head a little. Sam straightened in the chair beside him.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Dr. Harris, nodding briefly at Sam, then stepping up to Dean’s bedside. “How are we doing today?”

Dean gave a vague shrug.

Dr. Harris didn’t seem surprised. “Got your blood results back from yesterday,” he said, already rolling up Dean’s sleeve to check his pulse. “White count’s up a bit. Nothing too concerning, but I want to stay ahead of it.”

Dean grunted softly. Felt like everything was something these days.

Dr. Harris clipped a small pulse oximeter to Dean’s finger. Thermometer in his ear.

“Temp’s still climbing,” he said after a moment, “should’ve come down more with the meds you’re on. That’s not ideal.”

Dean let his eyes close for a second.

“Milly mentioned your breathing seemed a little laboured last night,” Dr. Harris continued, already reaching for his stethoscope. “I’m seeing some of that now, too. Are you struggling Dean?”

Dean blinked at the ceiling, then looked at him. “Not really,” he said after a pause. “Just… tight.”

“Tight in the chest?” Harris clarified; voice still gentle. “Or trouble catching your breath?”

Dean hesitated. “Little… of both,” he admitted.

Dr. Harris nodded, already placing the stethoscope against Dean’s chest. He listened carefully, moved it slightly, then again along his back with an apologetic hand as he helped shift Dean slightly to the side.

“Breath sounds are a bit diminished,” he said after a beat. “I’m going to order a chest X-ray this morning. Just want to rule out pneumonia or fluid.”

Dean didn’t react. Didn’t have the energy to.

“And some more bloods too,” Dr. Harris added, slipping the oximeter off his finger. “Oxygen’s a little lower than I’d like. If it dips further, we’ll give you supplemental O2, alright?”

Dean gave a tiny nod. Tighter was still better than pain.

“You need to eat more, too,” the doctor said, giving him a brief, measured look. “Milly said you managed a bit this morning. Keep that up. Keep your strength.”

Dean didn’t say anything. Just watched him as he packed away his tools.

The doctor gave them both a final look, then stepped out.

Door shut quietly behind him.

Dean’s eyes stayed on it for a long moment.

His chest still felt tight.

And his head was starting to ache again, dull, familiar.

He let his gaze drift to the ceiling.

Still no answers there. But at least the ceiling wasn’t disappointed.

Chapter Text

Sam had barely slept.

He’d spent most of the night replaying the fight with Dean, staring up at the motel ceiling until his eyes ached. He kept hearing the words he’d thrown out—the ones he couldn’t take back—and the way Dean had just… shut down. Hadn’t really looked at him again. Hadn’t said anything. Sam had wanted to fix it then, should have fixed it then, but every time he opened his mouth, the words stuck.

By dawn, he gave up on even trying to rest. He went for a run, showered, dressed, and grabbed a coffee he barely tasted on the way to the hospital. Visiting hours didn’t technically start for another half hour, but the nurses at the front desk knew him by now. They waved him through without hesitation.

He stopped at Dean’s door, hand on the handle, then went in. Dean looked worse, like he hadn’t slept either.

Still, the apology had gone better than Sam expected. Dean had tried to brush it off, but hadn’t shut him out. He’d even smirked, rasping out a “bitch.” It was the closest to himself Dean had seemed in months, and the weight in Sam’s chest had eased just a little.

Afterwards, Dean had drifted off, though not peacefully. Another nightmare. Sam wondered what it was about, but left it. Dean looked too worn down already. And his breathing, well, it seemed worse than it had yesterday.

Dr Harris came in mid-morning. Brisk but not unfriendly, giving Sam a nod before turning to Dean.

“Morning, gentlemen. How are we doing today?”

Dean gave a vague shrug.

“Bloods from yesterday show your white count’s up. Nothing too concerning yet, but it tells me your body’s fighting something.” Harris checked his chart, then Dean’s temp. “Still climbing. Should’ve come down with the meds you’re on.”

Sam shifted forward in his chair.

“Milly mentioned your breathing seemed a little laboured last night,” Harris went on. “I’m seeing some of that now. Are you struggling, Dean?”

Dean blinked at the ceiling, then looked at him. “Not really. Just… tight.”

“Tight in the chest? Or trouble catching your breath?”

Dean hesitated. “Little of both.”

Harris listened with his stethoscope, patient and thorough.

“Breath sounds are diminished,” he said finally. “I’m ordering a chest x-ray this morning, just to rule out pneumonia or fluid.”

That hung heavy.

Dean didn’t react, only looked tired.

“We’ll take more bloods, too,” Harris continued. “Your oxygen’s a little lower than I’d like. If it drops further, we’ll give you supplemental O2.”

Dean gave the smallest nod.

“Keep trying with meals,” Harris added. “Milly said you managed some breakfast. That’s good, keep at it, you need to increase your intake.”

He packed up and left, the quiet stretching again.

Sam leaned back, the weight of it pressing down. Pneumonia. Dr Parker had warned him back in ICU about the risks, about how dangerous it could be for Dean.

The silence was broken with the rattle of a trolley as a nurse came in. Dean’s eyes narrowed, his mouth flattening when he saw the blood vials.

“Morning,” she said gently. “Doctor Harris wants another set. Won’t take long.”

Dean turned his face toward the window, jaw tight. The bruises around his elbow stood out against the pale skin. Sam stared, fists curling uselessly on his knees.

The nurse slipped the tourniquet into place, tapping for a vein.

“I need you to relax your arm, Dean.”

Dean sighed and released the tension.

When the needle went in, he hissed faintly through his teeth, shoulders taut.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Your veins are starting to hide on me.”

Dean’s only reply was a shallow breath.

By the time she pulled the last vial, his arm was rigid again, teeth clenched. She eased the tourniquet off and pressed gauze into his elbow.

“All done. Hold that there for me.”

Dean pressed down without looking at her. She packed up quickly, gave him a polite smile, and left them alone again.

Sam let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Dean stayed staring at the wall, chest rising heavier than yesterday.

A cough broke out of him then, sharp, dry. Just one, but it seemed to take more out of him than it should, leaving him blinking at the ceiling until his breath settled.

Sam shifted forward, elbows on his knees. “You okay?”

Dean shrugged faintly.

Sam sat back, restless. The cough wasn’t new, but it carried more weight now.

It wasn’t long before another knock, and two radiology techs manoeuvred a portable X-ray machine into the room.

“Morning, Dean,” the older one said, setting down a plate. “We just need a couple of chest films.”

Dean’s mouth pulled tight, but he didn’t argue.

“We’ll do the work,” the younger tech added, lowering the rail. “You just lean forward a bit so we can slide this behind you.”

Dean huffed through his nose, irritation written all over his face, but gave a short nod.

The entire thing was awkward. With both techs helping him, they got the plate in place. Dean clearly unhappy.

“Deep breath in… hold it… and out.”

Dean inhaled, caught halfway, and stifled a dry cough into his fist.

“Again.”

This time, he got through it, though Sam saw the slight hitch in his chest when he exhaled.

“Last one,” the tech said, adjusting the angle. “You’re doing fine.”

Dean rolled his eyes but said nothing. When they pulled the plate free, his head dropped back against the bed with a sharp exhale.

“All done,” the older tech said, unplugging the machine. “The doctor will review them soon.”

Dean gave a short nod and dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that Sam didn’t catch. He looked irritated more than anything; being poked and shifted was getting old.

The lunch tray came not long after the X-ray techs wheeled their machine back out. Sam moved it closer, peeled back the covers, chicken broth, a bit of mashed potato, some carrots and peas, jelly in a plastic cup. All of it looked bland, but it was warm, at least.

Dean didn’t even look. He shifted slightly under the blanket, coughed once, low and dry, then let his eyes fall shut again.

“Not hungry?” Sam asked, trying to keep it casual.

Dean shrugged faintly. His hand came up, unsteady, fingers brushing the tubing taped to his cheek. Clear message: this is enough.

Sam exhaled slowly. “Yeah, I know,” he said, softer now. “But let’s try anyway, okay?”

Dean didn’t move. Hand dropped back to the blanket.

Sam leaned forward. “Hey, come on. You need to eat. The doc told you this morning you have to.”

That got a reaction, a twitch of Dean’s mouth, a thin scowl that didn’t last. His eyes opened just enough to catch Sam’s, then slid away again.

“Please, man,” Sam pressed, desperation leaking through despite himself. “You need to eat something. For me.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. Long enough for Sam to feel almost self-conscious. Then Dean gave a tiny nod. Almost imperceptible.

Sam swallowed, throat tight. He set the spoon in Dean’s hand, steadying it when it trembled too much. Each bite went down slow, mechanical, Dean barely reacting, Sam watching every movement, ready to help if needed.

When Dean pushed the spoon away at last, Sam didn’t fight him. He just put the tray to the side.

He’d gotten a fair bit in. Enough to ease the knot of worry for now. But the way Dean had agreed, the way it was so clearly for him and not for Dean, left Sam feeling something heavier.

Manipulation. That’s what it had been. He wasn’t sure if he felt bad about it or not.

Dean slept on and off after lunch, head angled awkwardly against the pillow. The quiet only broke with the thin sound of his breathing, each rise and fall stretched tight, sometimes hitched with a dry cough that shook loose from his chest.

The door opened mid-afternoon, and Melanie slipped in, dropping her bag by the chair.

“Hey, Dean,” she said, cheerful but not too bright. “Up for a few stretches?”

Dean cracked his eyes open, breath rough. “Yeah.”

“I’ve seen your chart,” Melanie said as she pulled a chair close. “So, we’ll just see how you go.”

Dean sighed, fingers twitching against the blanket. He didn’t argue, just gave the smallest nod.

Sam leaned forward. “You sure?”

Dean’s eyes flicked over to him. “Fine.”

Melanie gave Sam a quick look, then focused back on Dean. She guided his arms carefully, easing them into stretches he knew by now. Shoulders, elbows, wrists. He followed, jaw tight, giving what resistance he could when she asked for it.

“Good,” she encouraged. “Let’s do some grip work.”

She placed a small rubber ball in his palm. Dean squeezed, hand trembling with the effort. She had him alternate hands, then repeat. By the third set his fingers slipped, the ball rolling back into her hand.

“Band work?” she asked lightly.

Dean gave the smallest shrug. Melanie hooked a resistance band around his wrists, guiding him to pull inward. He managed the first few pulls, but halfway through a sharp cough bent his head forward. His whole frame stiffened, eyes squeezed shut.

Melanie steadied him, one hand on his shoulder until it eased. “That’s worse than yesterday,” she said softly. “Hurting?”

Dean gave a faint nod, not opening his eyes.

“Alright,” she said gently. “We’ll stay with the stretches. No need to push your heart rate.”

Sam’s stomach knotted, but he stayed quiet.

Melanie finished with slower movements, rolling his shoulders and working his joints without strain. Dean didn’t complain, though the grimace returned every time the coughing flared. By the end, he was clearly flagging.

“That’s enough for today,” she said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You did good.”

Dean nodded and let his eyes close, chest shuddering once more with another cough.

The door opened again. Dr. Harris stepped in, chart under one arm. “Afternoon,” he greeted, nodding at both Melanie and Sam before moving to the bedside. His eyes went straight to Dean. “The chest films are back. Lungs are inflamed. Pneumonia.”

Dean’s lips pressed tight, but he gave a short nod.

Sam’s stomach sank. He hadn’t wanted to hear that.

“We’re starting antibiotics right away,” Harris said. “And I want you on low-flow oxygen. Your sats are still borderline, but the support will help you feel more comfortable.”

He fitted the nasal cannula himself, looping the tubing over Dean’s ears. A soft hiss filled the quiet as the oxygen started.

“We’ll also see if we can get you a little more upright,” he added.

Melanie moved to the controls. “Same as before?”

“Slower this time,” Harris said firmly. “Small adjustments and see where the balance is.”

Sam tensed immediately. “Last time he nearly passed out.”

“That’s not unexpected,” Harris replied evenly. “The nerves that regulate blood pressure are affected. The only way through it is exposure. We’ll go more gradual this time. The more upright Dean can tolerate, the better for his lungs.

Sam pressed his lips together, unhappy but silent.

Melanie raised the head of the bed in tiny increments, holding after each one. Dean’s jaw slackened, eyes half-shut, but he stayed with them. A minute passed before she lifted it further.

“Easy,” Harris murmured. “Breathe, Dean. You’re doing fine.”

Dean grunted faintly, sweat beading at his temple. His skin paled, lips pressed tight.

Sam’s hand clenched the end of the bed. “He doesn’t look fine.”

“He’s okay,” Harris said, watching the monitor. “Pressure’s dipping, but we expected that. Hold here.”

The bed stopped at about a forty-five degree angle. Dean’s chest rose quick and uneven.

“There we go,” Harris said quietly. “Let him settle.”

A string of dry, rattling coughs shook through Dean, his face twisting with the effort. His hand pressed against his chest, eyes shut tight, jaw locked against the pain.

“Cough’s causing you pain, is it?” Harris asked gently.

Dean opened his eyes just enough to nod.

“Head or chest or back?”

Dean hesitated before rasping, “Both.”

“Alright,” Harris said. “We’ll keep you here and let your body adjust. I’ll also give you something to ease the pain and something to quiet that cough, it’s not productive anyway.”

Dean didn’t argue, just let his eyes close as Harris opened a drawer and pulled out two vials. He drew up the medications and pushed them through the IV, one after the other.

“That should take the edge off,” Harris said, resetting the line. He gave Melanie a nod. “That’s enough for today. Thank you.”

She packed up quietly and slipped out. Harris followed, leaving Sam and Dean alone again.

Sam leaned back in his chair, the weight of it settling in. “Pneumonia, Dean. That’s not good. Especially with…” He gestured faintly at the brace, the lines, all of it.

Dean flicked a glance at him, then gave a faint shrug.

Sam pressed his lips together, frustration rising. Dean could brush it off all he wanted, but Sam knew better. Pneumonia in his condition was dangerous. Maybe that wasn’t fair, Dean probably didn’t even fully grasp what it could mean, but that didn’t make the knot in Sam’s chest loosen any.

Sam sat slouched in the chair, newspaper in hand but barely seeing the words. The late light threw pale stripes across the room, catching on the line of oxygen tubing against Dean’s cheek. His steady breaths broke now and then with a cough.

Dean hadn’t said much since the doctor left. He drifted in and out, dozing fitfully, fever rising, leaving him pale and damp with sweat. Sam tried not to track every shallow rise of his chest, tried to focus on the paper he’d picked up downstairs, but the words blurred into the same dull smear.

Dean’s voice came before his eyes opened. Low, scratchy, like gravel dragged over stone. “Anything… good?”

Sam blinked, startled, setting the paper down. It took a second to catch up, Dean was looking at him, waiting.

“Uh,” Sam said, forcing a smile that felt thin. “No. Nothing worth reading.”

Dean gave the barest nod, gaze dropping. His fingers shifted against the blanket, a restless twitch Sam recognized.

“What is it?” Sam asked softly.

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again. He breathed shallow through his nose, eyes flicking toward Sam before skittering off.

“I…” His brow pulled tight, the words snagging. “…ask before?”

Sam frowned. “Ask what?”

Dean licked cracked lips, fought for it. “What…” He broke off coughing lightly, frustrated. “…happened.”

The bottom dropped out of Sam’s stomach. A week since Dean had last tried that question.
“Do you… remember?” Sam asked carefully, leaning forward.

Dean stared at the blanket, jaw working, like he could force the memory out. Finally he whispered, “Don’t… think so. Sorry.”

Sam closed his eyes briefly. “Don’t be sorry, man. It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise.”

But Dean’s face pinched anyway, shame etched into every tired line.

“You fell, Dean,” Sam said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

Dean turned his head, eyes narrowing faintly. “From… what?”

Sam swallowed. “A cliff. Near a waterfall.” He hesitated, remembering the call, the doctor’s voice. “That’s what they told me.”

Dean’s brow furrowed deeper. “How? Hunt?”

Sam wasn’t sure how to answer that. He wanted to say it was another job. Something clean. Something explainable.

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, voice small in the room. “I wasn’t with you.”

Dean’s mouth tightened, his eyes blinking slower, heavier. Then, softer than before, “…Oh. Okay.”

A beat later, as if the thought had only just caught up: “’Cause you… angry?”

That cut like a knife.

Sam pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down hard. His chest ached. “Yeah, Dean,” he said finally, the words torn from him. “I was angry. I should’ve been with you. I wasn’t. And I’m sorry. I will never forgive myself for that.”

Dean’s gaze flicked toward him, not sharp, not accusing. Just completely lost. “It’s okay.”

“But this morning,” Sam went on, throat burning, was that only this morning? “I told you I understand now. And I meant it. I get that you don’t remember what happened. I get that it’s hard. But can you believe me on that? Can you trust me?”

Dean’s lips parted, closed again. His eyes shone faintly, but no tears fell. The silence stretched until Sam thought maybe he’d lost him.

Then, finally, Dean gave the barest nod. “…Yeah. Sammy.” His voice was almost gone, a ghost of itself. “…Okay.”

Sam let out a shaky breath, his hand curling over Dean’s arm. “Okay,” he whispered back.

Dean’s gaze drifted, unfocused, heavy with fever and exhaustion. The hiss of the cannula filled the quiet, steady and soft, while Sam sat there with the weight of everything Dean hadn’t said pressing down on him.

At Dinner, Dean managed more bites than Sam expected. Slow, awkward with the fork, but steady. He looked like he was only forcing it down because Sam had asked him to at lunch. Each swallow looked heavy, but Dean pushed through until the tray was more empty than not.

Sam sat forward, ready to say something, then caught Dean’s look: don’t. He shut his mouth.

A few sips of water followed, Sam steadying the cup when Dean’s hands trembled. Dean set it back with a faint clink, leaning into the pillows, breath shallow. His eyes slipped shut.

Then another cough hit.

It snapped out of him sharp, dry, from deep in his chest. His body jerked with the effort, face twisting. Another cough ripped through him, harsher.

“Hey. Easy, you’re okay,” Sam blurted, already leaning forward.

But Dean wasn’t okay. The coughs came faster, brutal, rattling his chest. One hand clawed at his sternum, the other over his mouth.

Then the gag.

Dean lurched, head turning hard to the side. Sam yanked the tray away just in time before vomit spilled hot over his hand, soaking the gown, streaking down his wrist.

“Shit—” Sam’s hand clamped to Dean’s shoulder to steady him.

Another cough tore through mid-vomit, raw and wet, his throat seizing. Dean gagged again, choking, breath catching high and useless.

“Button—damn it—” Sam slammed the call button, his voice ragged.

Dean’s face had gone grey, lips paling, spit bubbling at the corner of his mouth. He coughed again, gagged, then coughed harder, a horrible wet rattle.

“He’s aspirating—” one of the nurses snapped as the door banged open. They were at the bed in seconds.

“Sam, tilt him a little more forward, good. Dean, stay with me.” Amanda’s voice was clipped but steady.

Dean’s chest heaved, eyes streaming, every breath broken by gagging coughs. Vomit ran from his chin down his neck, it was on his hands, arm and gown, clinging thick along his wrist and the IV line. Amanda swiped fast across his mouth and chin with a towel, clearing the worst before she nodded.

The second nurse slipped the suction wand in quick, skimming his mouth first, then angling deeper. A wet gurgle came up, then another, Dean choking hard against it before a thin breath dragged through.

“There you go,” Amanda coaxed, one hand braced at his shoulder. “Again.”

Dean coughed, gagged, spat against the wand.

“Good Dean.”

Another short suction cleared the mess, enough that air rasped in, shallow but real.

“Mask,” Amanda ordered. The oxygen mask slid over his clean mouth, snug. “Deep as you can, Dean. Let the air do the work.”

Sam hovered inches away, helpless, heart hammering so loud it drowned the monitors. Dean’s chest rose and fell quickly, shallow, uneven, rattled by coughs.

“That’s it,” Amanda soothed, low, steady. “Better. Just let it come.”

Dean’s lashes fluttered, sweat streaking his temple. His coughs grew weaker, less tearing, his breaths shaky but steadier under the mask.

Minutes stretched like hours.

Finally, Dean’s hand drifted up, tugging clumsy at the mask.

“Leave it, man,” Sam urged, catching his wrist gently. “Just a little longer.”

Dean’s stubborn streak burned through even now. He tugged again until Amanda slid the mask down to his chin. His breaths came shallow and shaky, but less frantic.

“Better?” Amanda asked, keeping her eyes on him.

Dean blinked once, slow, then gave the smallest nod.

“Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Amanda said briskly. She glanced at Sam. “Step out for a bit, we’ll call you back.”

Sam froze. The last thing he wanted was to leave. But Dean’s face, red, tear stained, humiliated, said he didn’t want an audience either.

“Yeah,” Sam said hoarsely. He leaned in, close enough for Dean’s glassy eyes to catch. “I’ll be right outside. Fifteen minutes, okay?”

Dean nodded.

Sam squeezed his arm once, then forced himself to the door. Out in the hall, he looked at his hands, a trip to the bathroom to clean up, suddenly seemed like a great idea.

Sam braced himself before stepping back inside, expecting Dean to look terrible. Instead, Dean looked almost like he did 20 minutes ago. His hair was damp and sticking up in every direction. Some parts lay plastered down, others shot up wild where they’d half-dried.

Sam blinked, then huffed out a laugh despite himself.

Dean squinted at him.

“What?” His voice rasped, rough as gravel.

“Dude,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You need a haircut.”

Dean lifted a hand, dragging his fingers through the uneven mess, shorter where his hair was shaved for the craniotomy, longer in patches elsewhere. He gave a crooked smirk. “Yeah.”

Sam’s chest loosened a fraction at the familiar look. He pulled up the chair again. “You okay?”

Dean put his head back against the pillows, shoulders slumping. “Yeah… That sucked.”

“Yeah.”

Sam didn’t say much after that. He just sat there, close enough if Dean needed him, until his brother’s eyes drifted shut. The hiss of oxygen filled the quiet. He stayed until visitor hours were long past done, knowing he couldn’t stay overnight no matter how much he wanted to.

“Night, man,” Sam said quietly, not sure if Dean was awake enough to hear. His hand hovered over the blanket, then settled, giving the faintest squeeze to Dean’s arm before pulling back.

Back at the motel, he showered and changed, but his brain wouldn’t stop turning. Images of Dean gagging and gasping kept shoving themselves to the front of his mind. Sam sat on the edge of the bed staring at his phone for too long, debating what to do.

He pushed himself up, grabbed his jacket, and walked.

He found himself outside a new bar a few blocks down, a place he hadn’t tried yet. Low-lit, a neon sign buzzing over the door, the kind of spot that didn’t attract tourists.

Inside, the smell of beer and fried food clung to everything. A couple of locals nursed drinks, and the pool table stood empty. Sam ordered a beer, then drifted over, cue in hand, before long.

The games blurred together. A few careless players, a couple of guys who thought they were better than they were. Sam took them all, clean and steady, and pocketed the bills without a word. His head cleared a little with each shot, angles and focus pushing out the churn of hospital memories.

By the time he left, he was up three hundred dollars. Enough to cover another week or two. It should’ve felt like a win. Instead, the walk back was too quiet, and the thoughts he was trying to avoid, started to creep back in.

Sam let himself into the motel room just after 2 a.m. and sat heavily on the bed. He didn’t bother with the light. Boots off, jacket tossed aside, he stretched out flat and finally let exhaustion drag him under.

The ring of his phone split the dark. He blinked at the clock: 5:03 a.m. Private number. His gut went cold instantly.

“Hello?” His voice came out rough, sleep-thick.

“Hi, Sam? Sorry to wake you. It’s Milly… one of Dean’s nurses. I was hoping you might be able to come in?”

Chapter Text

The doors to ICU hissed open, and Sam all but jogged after the nurse who’d led him down the hall. His stomach was in knots, chest tight. He barely cleared the threshold of Dean’s new room before the sight stopped him cold.

Dean was a wreck. Sweat slicked his face, hair damp and clinging to his temple. The nasal cannula trailed loose, tugged sideways as he twisted weakly against the brace. His arms jerked and flailed in uneven bursts, chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths.

“No… no!” Dean rasped, voice raw. His head turned against the pillow, eyes darting wild, unfocused. “Never… won’t… no—” His hands clawed weakly at the air, as if fending something off.­­

“Mr Winchester, Dean, you’re safe,” the nurse at his bedside said firmly, one hand braced near Dean’s IV line, the other reaching to catch at his wrist before it knocked against the rails. Sam recognised her when she glanced at him.

“Sam, he’s been agitated since transfer. The brace is keeping him mostly still, but this much struggling could lead to damage. If we can’t calm him soon, we’ll need to sedate. Sometimes a familiar voice works better. Please try.”

Sam didn’t hesitate. Moving forward and sliding into the narrow space at the bedside. Paige stepped smoothly aside, making room without letting go of her vigilance over the IV lines. Sam caught Dean’s wrists gently, wrapping his larger hands around them.

Dean strained, wrists flexing against Sam’s hold, but there was no strength behind it, only terror. A cough tore through him, leaving him gasping, words shredded. “Won’t… never.”

Sam leaned in close, voice steady even as his pulse raced. “Dean. It’s me. It’s Sam. You’re okay.”

But Dean only fought harder, weak muscles trembling with the effort. His head rolled to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused, every word spat out like it cost him. “No… no… get off… don’t…” His chest heaved, rattling, lips cracked and pale.

“Easy,” Sam murmured, heart hammering. He pressed Dean’s wrists back to his chest, trying to still the frantic jerks. “You’re in hospital. It’s just me. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Dean’s face twisted, fear carved deep into every line. His voice rough and hoarse. “Don’t… stop… no…” The syllables broke apart, swallowed in shallow gasps. His fingers curled tight against Sam’s palms, not pushing now, just shaking.

Sam leaned in close, steadying his own breath, his thumbs rubbing firm circles into the sweat-damp skin of Dean’s wrists. “Hey. Look at me. Not them. Just me.”

Dean’s head lolled weakly, eyes darting, unfocused. Another ragged cough wracked his chest. “No… won’t…”

Sam bent lower until his brother’s blurred eyes had nowhere else to land. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Dean’s chest hitched, another broken cough dragging through. But his gaze faltered and held. Dean’s eyes latched to Sam’s. His chest heaved, lips trembling around a rasp. “S—Sammy?”

Relief punched through Sam’s chest, until Dean’s face twisted, horror sharp and raw. His arms jerked weakly against Sam’s hold, muscles shivering. “No… no… don’t—” His voice cracked, tearing out in shreds. “Let… him… go!”

Sam’s stomach dropped. “Dean, hey, no, listen to me.”

“Please.” His eyes looked away, unfocused. “Don’t… no.”

“Dean, hey, no, it’s me. You’re safe.”

But Dean pushed against the words, panic splintering his voice. “Please…” His arms trembled under Sam’s grip, sweat dripping off his temple. “Sammy, no... Don’t—”

“Shh. I’m here. No one’s hurting me.”

Dean’s gaze slipped, breath breaking into shallow gasps. His lips worked, sound scraping out in broken fragments. “Okay… okay. Let… him go…” His chest shuddered, voice a shredded whisper. “I’ll… I’ll do it. Please. Just… let him… go.”

Sam’s throat burned. “Dean, listen to me—”

But Dean forced more words out. “Whatever… you want. I’ll… I’ll… just. Not… Sam.” His body sagged weakly back against the bed, arms trembling under Sam’s hold, but the words kept spilling, half-breathed, half-begged. “Please…”

“No, Dean. No. Nobody’s got me. I’m right here. You’re not there. You’re safe, here with me.”

Dean coughed hard, breath rattling, eyes wet and unfocused. His lips still shaped the plea, barely a sound now. “Please… let… him go…”

At Sam’s shoulder, Paige leaned in, her voice low. “Sam, it’s working. His heart rate’s coming down. Keep talking to him.”

Sam tightened his hold, fighting the tremor in his own voice. He let one of Dean’s wrists go, his free hand catching Dean’s chin, coaxing his face up. “Hey. No. Look at me, Dean.” His thumb brushed damp skin, steadying him. “It’s me. Sam. I’m okay.”

Dean’s eyes opened wider. His breath hitched, chest stuttering as if the words themselves were knives. “S-Sammy… sorry…” His voice cracked, raw with grief. “Didn’t… couldn’t—”

“Shhh,” Sam pressed quickly, leaning closer. He guided Dean’s trembling hand to his own chest, flattening his brother’s palm over his steady beat there. “Feel that? That’s me. I’m okay. You hear me? You protected me, Dean. I’m safe.”

Dean’s face twisted, a sound catching low in his throat, half a sob, half a breath. His lips formed another “sorry,” breaking on the word. His arm trembled where Sam held it, the fight fading with every shuddering exhale.

“That’s it,” Sam urged, his tone softer now, more certain. “Just me and you. I’m safe, you’re safe.”

Dean’s lashes fluttered, heavy, struggling. His chest rose and fell in shallow pulls, each one less frantic than the last. His gaze clung to Sam’s face.

“That’s great, Sam,” the nurse murmured, checking the monitor with a quick glance.

Sam swallowed the burn in his throat, thumb brushing over Dean’s damp temple. “I got you, man. You’re safe. Just rest.”

Dean blinked slow, the effort dragging. His lips shaped one last, fragile whisper. “Sam…” Then his eyes slipped closed, breathing uneven but steadier, body slackening beneath Sam’s touch.

Sam didn’t move right away. One of Dean’s hands was still caught against his chest, fingers lax against the fabric of Sam’s shirt, while Sam’s other hand rested against the side of his brother’s face, thumb tracing slow circles at his temple. He held him there for a moment, feeling the faint tremor still running through Dean’s fingers, the echo of panic that hadn’t quite faded.

Up close, he looked worse. Sweat clung damp to his hairline, skin pale under the fever’s flush, dark under his eyes. His lips moved faintly, but no sound followed. For all that Sam had pulled him back, Dean still seemed caught halfway, somewhere between fever-dream and awareness.

“That’s good,” Paige said softly, drawing Sam’s attention. She was checking the monitor, nodding with quiet approval. “His vitals are settling. You did well.”

Sam swallowed, voice low and rough. “What’s happening to him? He’s burning up. He feels like he’s on fire.”

Paige gave a small nod, adjusting the IV line. “He has a fever, which can cause delirium. It’s not unusual, but it’s distressing.” She glanced once more at the monitor before meeting Sam’s eyes. “We’d prefer not to sedate him if we can avoid it, so if you can keep him calm, that helps.”

Sam’s gaze fell back to Dean’s face, to his closed eyes and the way his chest hitched shallowly beneath the blanket. He kept Dean’s hand where it was against his chest, holding it steady for a few heartbeats longer before exhaling and gently easing it down. The movement stirred Dean, a faint twitch of protest, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“Easy,” Sam murmured, lowering his brother’s hand until it rested over Dean’s own chest. He adjusted slightly, sliding his hand from Dean’s face down to his shoulder, thumb brushing along the tense line of his neck, grounding him.

Dean stirred again, a small sound slipping out, half a whimper, half a sigh.

“Shh,” Sam whispered, leaning close. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

The words seemed to reach him. Dean stilled, eyes opening more, unfocused at first, then searching. When they found Sam, his breath caught. He looked like he was fighting to stay awake, to hold Sam in sight a little longer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam said softly, his thumb brushing once more over the back of Dean’s knuckles. “It’s just me, okay? Just rest.”

Dean’s gaze clung stubbornly for a few moments before exhaustion began to win. Sam’s chest ached watching it. Minutes stretched, broken only by the fragile rasp of Dean’s breathing. His eyes blinked slower, heavier, until finally they slipped shut, the lines in his face softening as the fight drained out of him.

Sam stayed there, one hand pressed warm against his brother’s chest, the other curled protectively over his hands, holding them both grounded in the dim ICU light.

Dean stirred, a low sound catching in his throat as his head shifted weakly on the pillow. His brows knit, lips moving faintly around a breath. Sam leaned forward instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, tightening his hold on Dean’s hand. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open. He blinked, disoriented.

“Sam…” His voice rasped, dry and raw.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Sam said softly, relief cutting through his chest. “You with me?”

Dean gave the faintest nod.

“That’s good.” Sam exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “How you feeling?”

Dean’s eyes drifted briefly toward the ceiling, then back to him. “Okay,” he whispered.

Sam huffed, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. Sure.”

Dean’s gaze shifted again, catching on the monitors and tubing. “New digs,” he rasped. “Why?”

“Not sure yet,” Sam admitted. He looked around himself: the heart monitor, the extra IV bags, the oxygen tubing clipped neatly at Dean’s nose. All of it felt heavier than last night.

After a pause, Sam leaned closer. “You want some water?” His eyes flicked to the bedside table, surprised to find it bare. “Guess they didn’t leave any. I’ll ask the nurse to bring some in.”

Dean shook his head weakly. “Later.”

Sam gave his hand another squeeze. “Okay. Later.”

The door opened, and Sam straightened as Dr Parker stepped in.

“Morning, Sam.” She moved closer to the bed, her tone softening as her eyes landed on Dean. “Dean. Good to see you awake.”

Dean’s lashes flickered, a sluggish blink up at her.

“Alright,” she murmured, pulling her stethoscope free. “Let’s check you over.” She angled the diaphragm against his chest in practised intervals. “Deep breath for me, Dean. In… and out.”

A faint, rattling pull rose from his lungs, followed by a shallow exhale that caught at the end.

“Good,” Dr Parker said quietly. She shifted the stethoscope. “One more.”

Dean’s chest moved, barely. When he exhaled, a dry cough broke through, making his face tighten and his eyes squeeze shut for a second.

“That looks like it hurts,” she said gently. “Chest or head?”

Dean swallowed. “Mostly… head.”

“Okay. I’ll give you something for it.”

She drew a dose from a vial and pushed it into his IV line before moving efficiently through her checks, pupils, temperature, blood pressure, pulse, circulation. Sam stayed silent, eyes following her hands as Dean’s tension eased, his breathing softening.

By the time she finished, his eyes had drifted closed again, lashes resting gently against his cheeks.

She turned her attention toward Sam. “He was transferred back to ICU just before you arrived. His condition worsened overnight. My understanding is that he had an aspiration event yesterday evening, which has caused a significant inflammatory response.”

Sam’s throat worked. “You mean when he was sick last night?”

“Yes. When he vomited, he inhaled some of that material into his lungs. The chest X-ray completed around two a.m. showed increased areas of inflammation. His temperature is up, and with the lungs irritated, he’s needing more support to keep his oxygen stable.”

Sam nodded stiffly, eyes flicking back to the shallow rise of Dean’s chest.

“We’re also concerned that we are seeing early signs of sepsis,” Dr Parker continued evenly. “It isn’t definite yet, but it’s a risk we’re treating seriously. He’s on broad-spectrum IV antibiotics, we’ve increased his fluids, and we’re monitoring heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen continuously.”

Sam pressed his lips together, squeezing Dean’s hand.

“The next twenty-four hours will tell us how he responds,” Dr Parker said gently. “Sam, he is very sick.”

For a beat, Sam just stared at her. Those words hung heavier than all the medical details that had come before. He searched her face as though there might be more, something to tell him Dean would be fine. But there was only sympathy.

His jaw flexed once before he gave the smallest nod, a reluctant acknowledgment more than agreement. Hard to accept, after five weeks of clawing Dean back from the edge, to be here again and hear they might lose ground.

He swallowed, voice rough when it finally came. “He was, uh, hallucinating before?”

“Yes. Delirium is quite common. We’re trying to avoid sedating him, as that could suppress his breathing further. Dean responds best to you, and you have done a great job settling him. We appreciate you being here.”

Sam gave a short nod, unable to trust his voice. He kept his attention on Dean instead, the damp hair clinging to his temple, the tremor that ran through his chest with each laboured pull of air.

Dr Parker’s tone stayed steady. “He’ll likely continue to drift in and out. Try to keep him calm. Talk to him and let him know you are here. If you need help or a break, let us know. Someone will stay with him; we’re tracking his vitals from the desk.”

“Uh, about water. He was thirsty, but there’s nothing here. Could he…?”

Dr Parker shook her head. “Not right now. He’s restricted, nothing by mouth, and nothing through the feeding tube until it’s safe. The risk of him inhaling more fluid is too high. He’ll stay hydrated with IV fluids, and when it’s safe, we’ll reassess nutrition.”

“…Okay.”

“Hang in there, Sam. He’s come a long way in the last month. We’ll do everything we can to get him through this and back on track.”

Sam sat forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Dean’s chest. He pulled his phone out, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before typing out a quick message.

Hey Cas, checking in. How’s it going?

He stared at it for a few seconds, debating adding more, but stopped himself. He sent it as it was, then set the phone face down on his knee and reclaimed Dean’s hand in his. He felt the faint twitch of fingers pressing back.

“You hanging in there?” Sam asked softly.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered. “…Mm.”

Not much, but it was something. Sam exhaled through his nose, thumb tracing idle lines across the back of his brother’s hand. “Good. That’s good.”

For a while, the only sounds were the monitors and the low hiss of oxygen at Dean’s nose. “You know, I found a diner down the street last night. Real greasy place. A couple of pool tables. You’d like it.”

Dean’s lips twitched faintly, eyes flicking toward him. “You win?” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

Sam huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. ’Course I did.”

That earned him a ghost of a smile, but his gaze slid past Sam, fixed on the far corner of the room. His voice rasped low, broken. “Shouldn’t’ve… stopped.”

Sam frowned. “Stopped what?”

“Job. Huntin’.”

Sam leaned closer. “Dean. Look at me.”

It took a beat, but Dean’s eyes tracked back, heavy and glassy.

“That’s better,” Sam murmured. “You don’t have to think about hunts right now. Just rest.”

Dean’s chest rose in a shallow hitch. “…Weak.”

“No,” Sam said quickly, too quickly. He steadied his tone. “You’re not weak. You’re here.”

Dean’s brow pinched, eyes wandering again. “…Supposed to… protect. Sammy.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “You did. Every damn time.”

 “…Broke.”

“Dean, you are not broken.”

Dean’s lips shaped words that didn’t seem to match the conversation. “Didn’t. Stayed on… rack.”

Sam froze. He recognised that the half-whispers weren’t meant for him. His grip tightened around Dean’s hand; he had a good idea who they were for. “Hey. Dean. Not Dad. Not now. Talk to me.”

Dean blinked, confusion flickering across his features. “…Sammy?”

“Yeah. Just me,” Sam said. “I’ve got you.”

Dean nodded faintly. His voice cracked, shredded thin. “Didn’t… keep you safe.”

Sam leaned in, free hand settling firm against his brother’s chest. “You did. You always did.”

Dean’s gaze drifted, lips working. “…Not enough.” His voice shook. “Sorry.”

Sam swallowed hard. He forced his tone steady, patient. “Don’t be sorry. I’m safe. I’m right here. No one else in the room.”

Dean blinked slowly, like he was trying to believe it. His fingers twitched in Sam’s grasp.

Sam squeezed. “That’s it. Feel that? Just me.”

“…Okay.” It was barely air.

“Yeah,” Sam whispered, holding on. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on him for a few breaths, then fluttered closed, though his hand still gripped Sam’s like a tether. Sam sat there, silent, letting the moment stretch. Willing Dean to relax, let go of the guilt that was now tumbling out.

Dean’s brow pinched, eyes cracked open, wetness shining at the corners of his eyes. “…Didn’t keep you safe.”

Sam swallowed, his own throat tight. “You did. Every damn time.”

A pause, then Dean whispered, “Not… enough.” His eyes slid again, like drawn by gravity to that empty corner. “Always let down.”

“No. No, that’s not true.” He rubbed Dean’s chest, trying to ground him. “You never let me down.”

“…Dad’s right.”

Sam’s heart stuttered. He gritted his teeth, forcing steadiness into his voice. “No, he’s not. He’s not here. Don’t listen to him, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw worked, silent. Then, after a long moment, “Sorry.”

Sam’s eyes burned. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry.”

Dean blinked slowly, dragging his gaze back to Sam. “…Try. Tried.”

“I know you did.” Sam rubbed his thumb gently over the back of Dean’s hand. “You never stopped trying.”

For a moment, Dean seemed anchored, eyes on him, heavy-lidded but there.

He tried to keep it going, filling the silence. “Hey, uh, I was gonna show you that video from earlier. Some dumb news thing, a guy tripped on live TV. You’d think it’s funny.” He huffed out half a laugh himself. “I should find it again.”

Dean’s lips curved faintly, almost but not quite a smile. Then his gaze slid again. His expression shifted, wounded.

“…Weak. Broke.”

“No. You’re not weak. You hear me? You’re the strongest person I know.”

Dean shook his head faintly, voice rasping. “…Didn’t save. Sammy.”

“You did.” Sam’s voice cracked. “You always did.”

Dean’s breath hitched. His gaze stayed fixed on that invisible corner, like listening to words Sam couldn’t hear. “…Didn’t hunt. Stopped… Worthless.”

Sam leaned in, desperate. “Shh. You are not worthless. You got hurt, Dean. That’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

Dean’s lips trembled. “…Broke. You… didn’t.”

Sam exhaled, pain lancing through him. He tightened his hold, voice breaking despite himself. “I wasn’t there, Dean. You carried it all. You survived. That’s not weakness.”

Dean’s eyes flickered to him, then away again. Silence stretched, heavy.

Sam tried again, gentler. “Don’t listen to him. Please. It’s just you and me.”

Dean’s head shifted slightly, tears catching in his lashes. “…Sorry. Always wrong.”

Sam leaned his forehead down against their joined hands, voice thick. “Jesus Dean. Stop. You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t.”

Dean blinked, finally dragging his gaze back. “…Sammy?”

A nurse slipped in a little later, quiet as she checked Dean’s lines and chart. She glanced at Sam, then at Dean’s pale face against the pillow.

“His sats are drifting again,” she murmured, adjusting the nasal cannula tubing. “We’ll bump the flow a little higher, see if that steadies him.”

Sam nodded, watching the numbers on the monitor crawl back up, but not far enough for comfort. Dean stirred faintly, lashes twitching, then resettled when Sam squeezed his hand. He seemed more aware in those moments, eyes flicking open, finding Sam, lingering a beat longer before sliding shut again.

The nurse hesitated, then set a packet down on the little tray.

“Pre-packed sandwich. Not great, but it’s something. If you want to grab a proper breakfast, let us know, we’ll keep a closer eye on him.”

Sam shook his head quickly. “I’m fine here.”

She didn’t press, just gave him a small smile before slipping out.

An hour crawled by. Dean dozed, skin blotchy with fever, his hand clammy in Sam’s grip, though his face burned. Sam swiped at the damp hair sticking to his brother’s forehead, watching the oxygen numbers slide again.

The same nurse returned, frowning at the monitor. “He’s maxed out on the cannula. We’re going to have to try a mask now.”

 “Okay.”

She fitted the clear plastic over Dean’s nose and mouth, tightening the elastic around the back of his head. At first, Dean barely stirred. But a minute later, his brows knit, his hand jerked weakly toward his face.

“Hey, hey, leave it,” Sam said quickly, catching his wrist. “It’s just oxygen, Dean. It’s helping.”

Dean blinked at him, eyes clouded but locking for a heartbeat. His hand stilled, then slipped down.

Sam exhaled, kept his grip steady. “That’s it. Just breathe with me. Slow.”

“If he continues to fight it, let us know.”

Sam nodded, fingers tight on Dean’s wrist. “Yeah. Okay.”

The nurse adjusted the flow, then slipped out quietly.

For a few breaths, Dean tolerated it. Then he coughed roughly, his hand lifted, fumbling for the mask.

“No,” Sam said, catching his fingers gently. “Leave it. You need this.”

“…Off.”

Sam shook his head, firm but soft. “Not off. It’s helping. Just a little longer.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. His breaths rattled faster, fogging the mask. His other hand twitched upward.

Sam caught that too, pinning both loosely against Dean’s chest. “Don’t. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Dean stilled, but only for a moment. His chest hitched harder, throat working against the hiss of oxygen. His eyes darted, unfocused, frustrated.

Sam tried to get him to match his own breaths, exaggerated and slow. “With me, Dean. Just breathe. Watch me.”

Dean’s gaze flicked to him, caught, but then slid away again. His lips pressed tight against the plastic. A muffled plea bled through. “…No.. Off.”

His hands twisted weakly under Sam’s grip, growing more insistent. Sam held on tighter, rubbing small circles against Dean’s clammy skin. “Easy. You’re safe. Nothing’s hurting you. It’s just an oxygen mask.”

But the words weren’t landing. Dean’s chest rose sharply, his heart rate climbing on the monitor.

Sam leaned closer, voice firmer now. “Dean, look at me. It’s me, okay? Sam. No one else here.”

Dean’s eyes flicked back, glassy and wide, but he kept fighting. His wrists pulled harder against Sam’s hands, breath rasping rough under the mask. The sound turned desperate, frantic, like he was choking on it.

“Damn it, Dean,” Sam’s throat closed tight. He bent close, forehead almost to his brother’s. “It’s helping you. Please, just—”

Dean shook his head, a broken gesture, and tried again to yank free. Alarms starting to chirp on the monitor. His chest heaved, shallow and fast, breath hitching as he started to panic.

“Come on, man, don’t fight me.” Sam’s grip was shaking now. He knew he was making it worse, holding him down. But if he let go, Dean would rip the mask off.

Dean’s muffled voice cracked raw. “…no…off”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, desperate. “I can’t. You need it. You have to trust me.”

The door opened. The nurse stepped in, quick to the monitor, her tone steady but brisk. “He’s not tolerating it. Sam, take it off. Give him a minute.”

Sam hesitated, hands frozen.

“It’s okay. Take it off,” she pressed. “See if it calms him.”

Sam fumbled with the strap, tugging it free. The hiss cut off. Dean gasped ragged air, chest heaving bare, but his panic didn’t vanish right away. His eyes were wide, still searching, hands trembling under Sam’s.

Sam pressed them flat again, gentler this time, rubbing across his knuckles. “It’s off. You’re okay. Nothing on your face. I got you.”

Dean blinked wetly, still trying to drag air, but some of the fight bled out of him. His hands curled weakly into Sam’s instead of pushing.

Sam bowed his head, breathing with him. “That’s it. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Sam counted with him, willing his brother’s lungs to listen, but the monitor betrayed him, the oxygen saturation sliding down, numbers ticking lower with every second the mask stayed off.

The nurse walked closer, checking the readout. “Eighty-nine. We can’t leave him without support for too long.”

Sam stiffened. Dean’s eyes flicked toward the nurse, panic sparking all over again. He tried to move away, breath rasping louder in his throat.

Sam caught his face instead, cupping his jaw with one hand. “Don’t look at her. Eyes on me, Dean. Just me.”

Dean’s chest heaved. A broken sound caught in his throat.

The nurse pulled equipment out of a drawer, holding thicker-looking nasal prongs. “We will try high flow; it’s not over his face. Just in the nose. But we need to get it on him; he’s dropping fast.”

Dean flinched, shaking his head hard. His breath stuttered, ragged and sharp. “…No.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. “Hey, hey, listen, it’s not the mask, Dean. Just a tube like before. That’s all.”

But Dean kept trying to shove himself back, wide eyes darting to every movement the nurse made. His O₂ dipped again, eighty-six, then eighty-five, the monitor flashing.

Sam swallowed down his own fear, shifting to block the view. He pressed a hand flat against Dean’s sternum, steady pressure, grounding. “Breathe with me. Right here.”

He exaggerated another inhale, another slow exhale, voice low, soothing. “You’re safe. I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”

Dean’s focus wavered between him and the ceiling. The monitor beeped again, more urgent.

“Sam,” the nurse said, firm now, “we need to support him.”

Sam gritted his teeth, nodded once. “Okay, listen, Dean. We’re putting this on. Just air. You’ve gotta let me.”

Dean’s lips parted, trembling, but the only word that made it out was cracked, childlike. “…Off.”

Sam brushed a thumb across Dean’s cheek. “I know. I know you hated it. This isn’t that. I swear. You trust me, right?”

Dean’s hands fluttered weakly, pushing at Sam, at nothing. His chest heaved faster, too fast, almost gasping as his sats dipped again.

“Eighty-three,” the nurse said tightly.

“Okay,” Sam told the nurse without looking up.

The nurse moved in carefully with the tubing. Dean startled, jerked against Sam’s hold. His whole body went taut, a broken sound ripping out of him.

Sam tightened his grip. “Easy, easy, it’s okay. Not over your face. Nothing’s covering you. It’s air. Just air.”

The machine hissed to life.

Dean bucked once more, oxygen still too low. Sam stroked his wrists, stopping him from lifting them. “It’s on. That’s it. You’re okay.”

It took time but slowly, the monitor ticked upward. Eighty-four. Eighty-six.

Dean gasped again, but some of the wild panic bled out of his eyes.

Sam stayed close, voice steady, relentless. “That’s it. Keep going. In with me. I got you.”

Sam felt Dean’s fingers twitch against his own and looked up fast. Dean’s eyes were cracked open, glassy but sharper than they’d been all morning.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, leaning in. “How you feeling?”

Dean’s throat worked, the oxygen hissing steadily around his nose. “…Tired.”

“Yeah.” Sam managed a smile. “You look it.”

“…What happened?”

“You… aspirated last night,” Sam explained. “Food got into your lungs. Made the pneumonia worse. That’s why you’re back in ICU.”

Dean frowned faintly, eyes slipping to the ceiling. “…Feels… heavy.”

Sam squeezed his hand, thumb brushing over clammy skin. “Your lungs are working harder than usual. That’s all. You’re getting oxygen to help.”

Dean gave a short cough; the effort left him grimacing, head sinking deeper into the pillow. “…Sucks.”

“Yeah, it does,” Sam murmured. He wanted to say more, to fill the silence, but Dean’s eyes found his again.

“…Not… getting better.”

“Don’t do that,” he said quickly. “Don’t count yourself out. It’s only been a few hours on the antibiotics. You need time.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line, the doubt plain on his face. “…Time.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice went fierce despite the whisper. “Time. That’s all. You’ve come back from worse.”

Dean’s gaze softened, lashes lowering. He looked at Sam for a long beat, almost like he wanted to believe him. Then he rasped, “…Cold.”

Sam reached up automatically, pulling the blanket slightly higher on his chest. “You’ve got a fever. That’s what it is. I’ll get another blanket in a bit.”

Dean blinked slowly, his breath rattling a little louder in his chest. Sam kept his hand pressed firmly against his brother’s, steadying.

“…Sam.”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on him, sharp for just a second before slipping heavy again. “…Thanks.”

Sam shook his head, holding tighter. “Don’t thank me. Just rest.”

Sam leaned back in the chair; phone balanced loosely in his hand. He scrolled through headlines, politics, weather warnings, another celebrity meltdown, nothing that sounded like a hunt, thank God.

A soft sound drew his attention; Dean shifted, a faint breath catching before settling again. Sam watched until he was sure it passed, then looked back down.

He opened his messages; still no response from Cas. His thumb hovered a moment before he typed:

Give me a call when you’re free?

His gaze drifted back to Dean, still, pale, sweat sheening his brow. He hit send.

“…Stop… Zeke… no… no…” Dean’s lips moved, the words barely audible, breath catching against the oxygen flow.

Sam straightened instantly, sliding forward in the chair. One hand gripped Dean’s forearm, the other wrapped around his hand. “Hey… you’re okay. Just breathe.”

Dean stirred, head turning faintly toward the sound, though his eyes stayed closed. “…my… my… fault…”

The murmurs came slow, fractured, looping in on themselves. Sam kept his grip firm but gentle, thumb rubbing slow circles over the inside of Dean’s wrist, feeling the tremor beneath fevered skin.

“…God… should’ve… just…”

A wet cough rattled through Dean’s chest. Sam moved, placing one hand over his sternum. “It’s okay, Dean. You’re just dreaming. You’re okay.”

Minutes blurred together, broken only by the quiet hiss of oxygen and the soft rustle of sheets.

Dean’s lips twitched again. “…Kid… didn’t… stop…” His brow furrowed, the line between his eyes deepening.

“Dean, come on, wake up. You’re okay.”

Dean’s lashes fluttered, and finally his eyes cracked open, glassy, disoriented, tears clinging to the edges. “Sam…”

Sam’s heart clenched; he leaned closer. “Yeah… I’m here. It’s okay. Just me. You’re safe.”

Dean blinked sluggishly, tears spilling down the curve of his cheek. Sam reached up, gently wiping them away with the side of his thumb.

“Sorry… my fault…” Dean whispered.

“Shh… don’t think about it right now,” Sam murmured. His hand settled on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’re okay.”

Sam stayed like that, one hand still around Dean’s, the other resting on his shoulder, watching the slow, fragile rhythm of his chest rise and fall. The room settled back into stillness, the world reduced to the soft hiss of air and the faint pulse under his fingers.

Dean had been awake on and off, sometimes aware enough to follow Sam’s voice, other times quiet and staring, lost somewhere else. Every cough tore through him, clearly painful. Even breathing looked like it hurt. The nurses had increased his pain medication more than once; it seemed to help, but it also left him more tired, more out of it.

Sam stayed close. He hadn’t even been to the bathroom since arriving just after five, and though he’d managed half a sandwich, his focus was on Dean, willing him to get better, to hold on. To get out of his guilt spiral he was stuck in.

Sam’s hand rested against Dean’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm. The nasal cannula hissed softly at the side of Dean’s face, oxygen flowing steady, but his brow was still furrowed and flushed, a low cough rattling through his chest.

“…You… came…” Dean muttered, voice hoarse and broken. His eyes flickered, darting past Sam, as if searching the corner of the room. “…Had to… save… him…”

Sam tightened his grip slightly, whispering into the quiet. “Hey… I’m right here. Just me. You’re okay.”

Dean’s lips trembled as another shallow cough shook him. “…Saved me… I… I… didn’t… save you…”

“Dean,” Sam said softly, leaning closer. “I’m here. Just me. No one else.”

“…Had… save… had to… couldn’t… leave him…” His lips moved rapidly, fragments of words coming out disjointed. “…I… I… cut… sent back… didn’t… didn’t help…”

Sam’s heart ached as he caught the fragments, recognising the delirium. “Dean… look at me. Look at me. Hey, you’re safe. It’s just me.”

Dean blinked, focusing briefly on Sam’s face, the anchor in the storm. “…Sammy…” His voice was thin, shaky. “…Sorry… my fault… I… I…”

“I know,” Sam whispered, pressing a hand to Dean’s temple, then returning it to his chest. “I’ve got you. You did what you could. You’re here now. You’re okay.”

Dean’s gaze drifted back toward the hallucination, his fingers curling slightly in the air as if touching someone invisible. “… left… couldn’t… saved … stayed…” He coughed, wet and rattling, pulling a shallow breath. “…died… my… my fault…”

Sam’s thumb moved over the back of Dean’s hand, murmuring soothingly. “I know, I know…  Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Dean’s chest rose unevenly, trembling with each shallow pull of air. “…I… let… you die…” His voice fell to a whisper. “…I… I… didn’t… save…”

Minutes passed in quiet murmurs and shallow breathing. Dean’s eyes flickered between Sam and the empty corner, murmuring fragments of guilt and gratitude, each one a thread back to someone he could not reach.

Sam didn’t let go. He let the words tumble out, the murmurs and coughs pass, keeping him steady, trying to keep him present.

“…I’m here. You’re safe. Just me. Breathe with me, Dean. That’s it. That’s it…”

The hours dragged. Sam stayed in the chair, one hand curled around Dean’s wrist, his eyes flicking between the steady rise of his chest and the glow of the monitor.

Dean’s fever had climbed again. Sam could feel it in the heat radiating off him, see it in the way sweat gathered along his hairline despite the cool air of the room. His breaths came harder, more drawn out, his throat catching every so often on a cough that left him grimacing.

Sam leaned closer, brushing damp hair back from Dean’s forehead. “You’re burning up again,” he murmured, useless words against the weight in his chest. “Just hang in there.”

Dean’s eyelids fluttered, heavy but restless. His gaze tracked to the side, unfocused, like he was following someone across the room. Sam frowned, squeezing his wrist gently. “Hey. Eyes on me, huh?”

But Dean didn’t. His lips parted, cracked voice just above a whisper. “...Benny.”

Sam’s stomach sank.

“Dean.” Sam leaned in, voice urgent but low. “There’s no one here. Just me.”

Dean shook his head weakly, a faint crease forming between his brows. His mouth moved again, words breaking into fragments. “…Saved me. Again. Always.” His chest hitched on a rough swallow, the next word trembling. “…Friend.”

Sam’s throat tightened. He caught Dean’s hand and held on, grounding him. “He was. I know. He was your friend.”

Dean coughed, breath hitching, chest rattling with the effort. His eyes watered, but he wasn’t looking at Sam. Not really. “Had to…” His jaw trembled, lips pale. “…Save you. Sammy.” His voice cracked. “…So I… killed him.”

Sam shut his eyes, guilt hitting sharp. He pressed Dean’s knuckles against his forehead, voice shaking. “I know. I know you did. I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so damn sorry you had to.”

Dean’s gaze stayed locked on that empty space. A tear slid from the corner of his eye. “…Didn’t come back,” he whispered. “…Supposed to. But—” His throat worked, breaking on the word. “…Didn’t think.”

Sam forced himself to meet his eyes, pulling Dean’s focus inch by inch. “You didn’t leave him behind, Dean. He chose it. He saved me. He saved us both.”

Dean blinked heavily, lashes clumped with tears. He gave the barest nod, but his eyes still drifted sideways, as though Benny lingered in the shadows of the room. Sam didn’t push. He just kept hold, whispering, “He was a good friend. The best.”

The room had settled back into a heavy quiet after Dean’s fractured words about Benny. His arm was still in Sam’s, fever seeping through his skin. Sam watched the monitor, watched the steady drift downward of the little green numbers.

Dean was in a half-doze, lips twitching now and then like he was caught between fever-dream and exhaustion. Sam brushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead and tried to will him peace.

The door cracked open, Nurse Paige slipping in with a tray balanced on one hand. She moved quietly, practised in the way she didn’t startle Dean. “Hey, Sam,” she whispered, coming to the bedside. She set the tray on the counter, a bottle of water, a neatly wrapped sandwich, a small packet of chips. “You missed lunch,” she said quietly. “I know it’s hard, but he’ll need you sharp when he wakes up.”

Sam managed a faint nod. “Thanks.”

Her eyes flicked up to the monitor, the soft beeping and shifting numbers reflected in her glasses. “How’s he been?”

Sam rubbed at his temple. “Restless. He was… seeing things. Talking to people who aren’t here.” He hesitated, voice thick. “Been quiet for a while.”

She nodded gently. “It comes and goes. I know it’s not easy to witness, but you’re keeping him calm.”

Paige lifted Dean's blanket slightly, checking the urinary catheter, the position of his legs, then adjusted a wedge to change the pressure points under his hip. Dean’s body twitched faintly at her touch, a low sound catching in his throat. She murmured reassurance under her breath, then glanced up as Sam spoke.

“His hands feel cold,” Sam said, frowning. “But he’s still burning up. How does that even make sense?”

Paige checked Dean’s wrist herself, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point before she spoke. “It’s his blood pressure,” she explained softly. “When it drops, the body pulls blood toward the vital organs to protect them. That’s why his hands feel cold, even with the fever. It’s part of what’s going on.”

She turned back to the monitor, adjusted the oxygen flow, and sighed quietly. “We’re already at the max.”

Sam’s chest tightened. “So… what happens now?”

“I’ll page Dr Parker, let her know we need to step things up.” She reached for a clean cloth from the tray, dampened it from the basin, and wiped gently across Dean’s forehead and down his neck, then along his chest and shoulders. “This should help a little, make him more comfortable.”

Sam nodded faintly. “I might, uh… just use the bathroom.”

Paige glanced up. “Of course. I’ve got him.”

Sam crossed the short distance to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He leaned over the sink, bracing his hands on the edge, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. He ran a hand through his hair, then over his face, the motion slow and heavy. Cold water splashed against his palms as he turned on the tap. He pressed it to his face, then exhaled, a long, steady breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

He stared at himself for a beat, face wet, eyes tired and red-rimmed, then drew another breath, squared his shoulders, and shut off the water.

When he came back out, Paige was still by the bed, wiping Dean’s arm and tucking the blanket back in place. “Hang in there, okay?” she said quietly. “You’re both doing everything right.”

Then she slipped out as quietly as she’d entered.

It wasn’t long before Dr Parker arrived. She checked the monitor, then bent over Dean with careful hands. He shifted, brow furrowing, pulled back toward the surface.

“Dean?” Sam leaned closer. “Hey. You with me?”

A pause, then the faintest answer, a breath on dry lips: “…Yeah.”

Sam closed his eyes for a second, relief cutting through his chest.

Dr Parker crouched low beside the bed. “Dean, your oxygen is still trending down. The support you’re on now isn’t enough anymore. What we need to do is give you some medicine to help you sleep, then take over your breathing for a while. That way your body can rest while the antibiotics do their work.”

Dean’s lashes stuck together when he blinked. His chest shuddered against the tug of the cannula, breaths shallow and dry, a faint whistle leaking on the exhale.  His gaze tracked past her, slow but steady, until it found Sam.

“…You ‘kay?” The rasp barely shaped the words.

Sam leaned in, gripping his hand hard. “Yeah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He forced his voice lighter, even though his throat burned. “You’ll just be taking a long nap. I’ll get to watch you sleep again.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Dean’s mouth, tired and knowing. “…Sure, Sammy.” His voice was no more than a scrape of air, but his eyes held him, unblinking. Then he let out another thin breath, a hitch catching at the end. “…It’s okay. It’s good.”

Sam shook his head quickly, thumb brushing the damp skin at Dean’s temple. “No. It will be good when you’re better.”

But Dean only blinked, mouth twitching again at some private thought.

Dr Parker’s voice came gently back in. “Dean, I’d like to start this process soon. You’ll feel the medication make you sleepy, and then we’ll do the rest.”

Dean shifted his eyes toward her, then back to Sam, and gave the faintest nod. “…’kay.” His fingers twitched weakly in Sam’s. “…You’re good. All… good.”

Sam swallowed hard, leaning closer until their foreheads almost touched, holding that frail grip as if it were the only tether left.