Sam opens his eyes and instantly regrets his decision.
He feels like crap.
His entire body aches in time with his head and there is a shooting pain traveling up and down his legs with alarming intensity. When he tries to lift his head from the pillow, a migraine threatens to split through his field of vision, bright and ferocious. He whimpers and gives up the fight, closing his eyes again.
A female voice says "Now what are you doing up?" and then there's a prick of a needle against his skin and he knows nothing more.
The next time Sam swims back into consciousness, the pain in his head has mostly receded and he’s feeling marginally more coherent. He still hurts and his thoughts keep getting lost in the kind of muzzy, drifting cloud that he associates from previous hospital stays with the best pharmaceuticals. But he can open his eyes and look around the room, so he counts that as a win for the moment.
Worse than the pain is a strange sort of internal itch that's been gathering steam inside him since he woke up. (Itch isn't the right word. It's almost a hunger?) It's making him unsettled and restless in a way that he can't quite put his finger on.
Looking around, Sam is surprised to discover that he doesn't appear to be in either a hospital or a motel. Instead he's lying prone on a cot in the middle of a small, sunny bedroom. There's a squat side table next to the bed and an metal IV stand in the corner. He notes with mortified resignation that there’s a half full catheter bag on the stand, attached to tubing which runs to bed and disappears under the covers.
Otherwise, it’s a sparsely decorated little room that gives away few clues about its previous inhabitants. There's an old fashioned, dark colored wooden chest looming in one corner and a rocking chair guarding the door. On the opposite wall, the sun is shining brightly through a wide picture window, gently warming the right side of his body. The view doesn’t give away much, he sees nothing but trees as far as the horizon line.
As for himself, he looks down to properly check the damage. Someone (Dean?) has gone to the trouble of splinting his right arm and both of his legs. He wiggles his fingers and toes experimentally and has to bite his lip to hold back another groan. It feels like multiple fractures in both, plus maybe a broken rib or two, in addition to a shoulder.
Yeah, he's probably going to be stuck in bed for awhile. He feels like he did that time Dean and him took on a vampire nest, when he managed to do a header out of a second story window. He had been forced to spend 4 days in the hospital before Dean had been willing to sneak him out, a measure of just how worried his brother had been, since usually Dean can't wait to get out of hospitals.
He doesn't like that he has no idea where Dean is right now or that he’s not sure happened to mess him up like this. Sam's never done too well when he's had to deal with not having all the information and right now there’s a big bleeding gap in his memory where the last few days should have been. Days, or maybe weeks? Its unclear.
He closes his eyes again and Dean’s face floats briefly into his field of vision. The Dean in Sam’s brain looks equal parts furious and heartbroken.
There was a fight, Sam thinks, but he isn’t sure he can say why he thinks it.
The door opens with a whine of hinges and a woman bustles in. She's middle aged and aggressively average looking, with a kindly, rounded face and a soft brown fringe of hair. Sam relaxes a fraction, but only a fraction because he has plenty of experience with monsters that look unassuming at first glance.
“Oh hey, so you're finally up! How ya’ feeling?" She's got a voice that's full of innocent, folksy goodwill.
He hesitates, not immediately sure how to answer her. She sees his expression and takes pity on him.
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions for me Sam, but first I just want to know what your pain level is."
"It's..not too bad," he tells her, finally finding his voice. Jesus he sounds rough.
She tsks disapprovingly. "Sam, you were in quite the car accident two days ago. Now I know you can handle a lot, but there's really no need to be a martyr with me and I'm sure you must be hurting."
A car accident?
He's in the driver seat. It's a truck, not the Impala and where's Dean? Dean's nowhere to be seen. There is the sound of rain pounding relentlessly against the windshield and then he's flying out of seat and into the dark night and--
He blinks, trying to clear his head. She's studying him with concern. "My ribs are pretty rough,” he offers.
She smiles at him like he's won a prize and then heads over to the chest to start rustling through the drawers.
"Now," she prattles cheerfully while she hunts, "I want to step down from the really powerful stuff, you've been on it for days and it’s not so good for you to be on that for long, but I'm sure I have some nice pills in here somewhere that will make you feel better."
He listens a little distractedly and finally manages to cut in when her monologue starts to slow. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?"
She turns around triumphantly, pills in hand, and then gives him a little abashed grin that's probably meant to be charming, but which sits awkwardly on her face. "Oh, no I'm the one who should be sorry, here I am chatting away and I forget to introduce myself. I'm Annie and I am, well I guess you can say, I'm your number one fan."